


Stone Cold Sober

by FabulaRasa



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 83,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the sequel to a much shorter story also on this archive, <i>Under the Influence</i>. While it might be helpful to read that brief story first, it's not strictly necessary. This is really the story of how one deals with the aftermath of casual intimacy -- what happens when you want someone you hadn't expected to want, and then when what you want turns out to be. . .  rather more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone Cold Sober

**Chapter One: The Morning After**

"Black."

"What?" Sirius tried to crack an eyelid and winced. He ran a tentative tongue over his teeth. Whoever it was who had sneaked in last night and beat him senseless had also taken the time to slip little socks on all his teeth. His head pounded. Who knew breathing was so loud?

"Black."

"Stop shouting," he croaked.

"I am not shouting. Get your head off me. I need to go to the loo."

"'L 'righ." He licked his lips and tried to lift his head. He gasped at the agony caused by any motion of his neck muscles and let his head drop. "What the hell happened."

"Get. Off. Me. Now."

It was not a tone of voice to be taken lightly, so Sirius took a deep breath and rolled off the long, warm body he had been using as a pillow. Oh. Movement not good.

Snape rose and strode quickly to the bathroom. Sirius listened absently through the door, impressed by the size of Snape's bladder and apparent lack of prostate trouble. Prostate. That brought last night back in a rush. Holy fucking shit. He heard the taps running. Snape must be throwing water on himself. Right. Breakfast in hall. He sneaked a peek at Remus, still passed out, sprawled on the floor. Amazing. How could he sleep like that? He carefully edged himself into more of a sitting position on the bed. Snape emerged, toweling his head.

He ignored Black on the bed and began righting his clothes in the mirror. He had fallen asleep with everything more or less on, just gaping and disheveled. Unlike Sirius, who noted with chagrin that he had not a stitch on him and not the faintest clue what might have become of his clothes. Possibly Remus was sleeping on them. Sirius caught sight of a pack of Remus's expensive smokes on the nightstand and lit one, hoping it would clear his head. He watched Snape's intentness as he put himself in order. Their eyes met in the mirror and did not veer away.

"Some drugs you handed us last night."

Snape turned and swept a disdainful gaze over him. "Yes, you do seem rather the worse for wear."

"You're quite the picture yourself. Fix that edge of your cravat."

Snape fussed with himself some more in the mirror.

"So." Sirius stretched. "I had no idea you were such a hopeless junkie."

"I am not accustomed to indulging to that extent," Snape replied stiffly.

"Well. Apparently neither am I. I don't remember the last time I was quite this hung over. Care for a smoke?" he tossed Snape the pack, which he deftly caught. Experimentally, he held on to the lighter. Snape came and sat on the edge of the bed and leaned in to be lit. Sirius shielded the flame from non-existent breeze with his hand.

They sat and smoked in silence for a while. Sirius contemplated the window.

"Though I can't say that I had a bad time," he mused. "In fact, I'd have to say I rather enjoyed myself. Taken all in all, that is."

"Yes," Snape agreed absently, flicking ash onto the floor. "All in all."

"However, I do regret having killed my best friend," he said with a rueful glance at the floor.

Snape snorted and stubbed out his cigarette on his shoe, tossing it in the grate. "Everything has its price." He pulled his robes about him and stepped to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "Good-bye then Black."

Sirius blew a final cloud of smoke and sent his cigarette after Snape's. "Good-bye then." When Snape was gone, he burrowed down under the blankets and considered trying to sleep some more. He gave up after a few minutes and sat back up. Glancing down, he saw Remus's eyes on him.

"Good morning Morpheus. How long have you been awake?"

"Some time. Since before Snape left, actually."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I like to watch, remember?" Lupin stretched his limbs languidly and climbed up into the warm bed above him. "Christ, it's cold. Why didn't you start a fire?"

"Mm. That would entail getting up. Watching, hm? Hoping for another show?"

Remus chuckled. "No. Just curious, is all." He pulled up another quilt from the foot of the bed. "Not that a show would come amiss, mind you."

"Hm. Didn't notice you objecting to being part of the action, there."

"Oh no. I've no objection." Remus yawned and burrowed further under cover. His hand landed on Sirius's thigh and his finger began idly circling. Sirius raised his eyebrow.

"That's the Rubicon you're dipping your toe in, my friend."

"I can swim." Lupin edged closer and brushed his morning erection against Sirius's leg. "Besides, I'd say last night put us fairly well on the other shore."

"Last night we were stoned out of our minds. What's our excuse this morning?" He stifled a gasp as Remus's finger began its small circles around the tip of his swelling cock.

"Working off the hangover?" Remus's burrowing finally caused his head to disappear. Sirius let out his breath in a hiss as he felt his friend's mouth close on him. He arched upward and let his head fall back.

"Oh-so good. Where the hell did you learn-oh, God."

He gave in to the swirling, sucking heat of Remus's surprisingly talented mouth. It took several minutes for him to jerk back the covers and pull Remus up so they were face to face.

"Stop now. Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Fuck me like you did Severus."

That went straight to his groin with a jolt.

"Turn over." Remus complied. "Where-?"

"Nightstand."

He located the small brown vial and poured the warm slickness into his hand. He began tiny thrusting motions with his finger up the tight entrance so enticingly uplifted in his direction. Remus groaned into his pillow.

"More." Sirius obliged. By the time he was at three fingers, Remus was fisting the sheets and humping the mattress. "Get in me now."

He positioned himself between the globes of that gorgeous pale arse and pushed gently against the ring of muscle. Lupin gasped. He thrust in all the way in one smooth motion, breathing shallow to slow his threatening orgasm. "Good?" he asked in a tight voice.

"Oh, God. So good, Sirius. So good." Remus lifted himself and pushed back. "Fuck me."

"Like I did Severus?"

"Yes, just like that. Oh, God, yes."

"Did you like to watch, Remus? Did you imagine that was you underneath me?"

"Yes."

"Did you-" he stopped, too far gone to talk anymore. He thrust in deeper, relishing the little cries from Remus's mouth. He snaked a hand underneath them to circle Remus's cock.

"Yes, yes, just like that-"

"Just like with Severus?"

"Just like. . .oh please-" With a strangled noise, Remus's come spilled over his hand as he thrust madly into Sirius's hand. His own orgasm swallowed him, the ring of muscle contracting around him, milking him of his seed until he was a spent heap sprawled on his friend's back, panting and gasping for air. Neither of them spoke for some time.

"Still hung over?" Lupin's voice had gone husky.

Sirius slid off and chuckled. "No, I think that did the trick."

Remus smiled sleepily. "Good."

"My God. You're going to go to sleep again, aren't you? I'm beginning to see why you haven't been in any long-term relationships."

"Yes," he murmured. "They all say it's the transform-into-a-bloodthirsty-monster-once-a-month thing, but I know it's really the postcoital coma they can't stomach." He gave a tremendous yawn and rolled over.

Sirius's laughter deepened. He thwacked Remus's head playfully. "Go to sleep, you great git."

"Mm," was his only answer.

He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and watched Remus sleep, smoking in silence. Just like. Only not, quite.

* * *

It was another month before Sirius was back at Hogwarts.

He had spent the afternoon strolling the narrow streets of Hogsmeade, peering in shop windows, musing to himself. Even now, a year after his name had been cleared, he found that he avoided the company of others. Too much time spent on the run after too much time in solitary had unaccustomed him to the demands of human society. He still preferred to lurk in shadows, to avoid attention, to sidestep the direct gaze whenever possible. Occasionally, in the Leaky Cauldron with Harry, or in Diagon Alley, or the Three Broomsticks with Remus, he would catch someone staring out of the corner of his eye-Sirius Black, convicted murderer, madman. Now walking free. Gather your children close.

He pulled the collar of his robe higher as he walked down the cobbled street. Remus teased him about his hair, calling it vanity that he hadn't cut it. The truth was, it made an excellent way to hide. He stopped and investigated a set of Quidditch gloves in a window, letting his hair fall forward to shadow him. He caught his reflection in the polished glass and quickly looked away. He did not care to meet the over-large eyes of the gaunt, feral creature he saw in the mirror these days. The leather on the gloves looked soft as butter. It would make a nice gift for Harry. He pushed open the little shop door and re-emerged a few minutes later with a brown parcel. Nothing left to do now but deliver it. He walked slowly up the path to Hogwarts as the sun set behind him, considering.

* * *

"Sirius! You might've sent word you were coming, you know." Remus embraced him with a grin and lightened him of his parcel. "For me?"

"You wish. For Harry. New Quidditch gloves."

"Oh."

"I know that 'oh.' Say what you're thinking, for once."

"I wasn't thinking anything. Have a cup of tea with me before I head down to the hall."

"All right." He collapsed in the comfortable armchair and stretched his feet to the fire.

"Sure, take my chair, why don't you."

"Don't mind if I do. What were you going to say?"

Remus sighed. "Just that it seems you bring another extravagantly expensive gift with you every time you come to visit Harry."

"And why shouldn't I?"

Remus handed him the sludgy tea. "Because he doesn't need it. He adores you, and you've nothing to make up for."

"God, Remus, must you take everything so seriously? It's a gift, for heaven's sake, not an opportunity for you to psychoanalyse me. And it's gloves, not the keys to a Tuscan villa, so relax." He sipped his tea and made a face. "You might've made fresh."

"You might've sent word." Remus sat in the little chair beside him and regarded him with a smile. "I'm glad you're here, Sirius."

"Me too. What are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing much. I ought to be plowing through a stack of papers, but I'll doubtless put it off till the last possible moment. Want to go out?"

"No, not really. I was out all day today. To tell you the truth, I was thinking about some of that wonderful stuff Snape has. Think we might be able to wheedle some more out of him?"

Remus narrowed his eyes in thought. "Are you looking to get stoned or laid, Paddy?"

"What's wrong with both, I'd like to know?"

Remus drummed his fingers on the table and said nothing. After a bit he shrugged. "All right. I've got to go to dinner, then I've got a detention to supervise. Come back here around nine, if you want."

Sirius stretched further into the chair. "I might just take a nap till then."

Remus laughed and headed out the door.

* * *

When he woke, the clock on the mantel was chiming eight. He stirred the fire and went in search of Snape. There was no answer at his office door, but he found him in the classroom, hunched over a cauldron. He did not look up when the door creaked open. Sirius watched him stir for a while as he flipped through the large mildewed tome beside him.

"Is there something you wanted, Black?"

He leaned against the worktable and sniffed the potion. "Foul-smelling stuff. Is that your soap you're blending?"

"Get to the point, Black."

"Remus and I want some more of that fabulous stuff you've got."

Snape sighed and glanced up with a frown. "Honestly, have you nothing better to do with your pathetic selves?"

"Not at the moment, no. Come on, Snape. In the interest of healing old wounds, forging new bonds, and all that tripe Albus is always talking."

"My bonds are quite forged enough, thank you." He tapped his stirring rod against the side of the cauldron and wiped it with a silken cloth. "Very well. Wait here." He stalked to his office and emerged with a small linen bag tied with string. He tossed it to Sirius. "Don't blame me when you end up huddled in an alley gnawing mouldy crusts of bread, begging stray coins from passersby to supply your filthy habit."

Sirius opened the little bag and sniffed the tiny crushed leaves. He frowned. Opium, cannabis, and something else he couldn't name and probably wouldn't want to. "Filthy habit? They're your drugs, you hypocrite."

"I keep them for medicinal purposes."

"Really."

"Just have it back here by morning."

"What, you're not coming?"

"No, Black, believe it or not, spending an evening obliterating brain cells with you and Lupin is not my idea of a rousing good time. For the two of you, of course, the damage is already done, but I've still something to lose."

"Like the broomstick up your arse. I didn't notice you complaining before."

Snape did not answer but resumed his careful stirring. Sirius tried another tack. "Oh, come on, I'm sure we could drown a few puppies or something to keep you happy. I'm not going to take your drugs and leave you sitting here stewing over your eye of newt and toe of frog."

"I am at a very delicate point. I was just about to add the finger of birth-strangled babe."

"Yes, no doubt you've got a supply of infants you've strangled swimming in jars somewhere around here. Shall I dice while you chop?" His only response was a disdainfully cocked eyebrow. "Come on, Snape. Just for a little. It'll be fun. We'll have you home by midnight, I promise." He kept his voice carefully neutral.

Snape gave the cauldron a few more stirs, then lowered the fire underneath. "Very well. I can only be gone a short while, however."

* * *

"I don't understand."

"Christ. There's nothing to understand. It's music. You're supposed to relax and enjoy."

"But what does he mean by 'the time of the season for loving'?"

"How the hell should I know? It's a nice song, is all."

"But why should he care who my Daddy is?"

Remus, stretched above them on the bed, laughed. "Quiet down, you two."

"What, are we disturbing your sleep?" Sirius stretched out a leg and poked him with his foot. "Passing out already?"

Snape was frowning. "And what on earth are 'pleasured hands'?"

Sirius rolled over. "These." He lifted one of Snape's long legs onto him and began massaging his thigh slowly.

"Oh, good God. I should have seen where this was headed."

"So move your leg then."

Snape made no move but closed his eyes. Sirius worked his fingers around so his thumb was rubbing Snape's inner thigh. He let his other hand brush against the swelling lump above the thigh. Still Snape did not open his eyes, though his breathing accelerated slightly. Sirius flicked open the buttons of his fly and began rubbing the other thigh.

"Black. Why don't you go hump Lupin's leg and leave me in peace."

"Because you don't look like you want me to leave you in peace."

He freed what was by now a substantial erection from the confining cloth. He wet a tentative finger and ran it down the hardening length. He heard Snape hiss.

"Something you want, Snape?"

"Black." It was a plea, not a curse, this time. He edged up and positioned his mouth over the twitching organ. His eyes met those of Remus, who had rolled over on his stomach and was watching, head on his arms. Slowly he lowered his mouth and took him in, relaxing his throat to take him all at once. Snape balled his fingers and stifled a moan. Sirius lifted his mouth and smiled.

"Like that, Severus?'

Snape's eyes fluttered open at the use of his name, but for answer he just thrust upward. Sirius clamped his mouth back, and worked his hands underneath so he was cradling Snape's arse in his hands, kneading him, pulling him up to his mouth, sucking and licking and keeping him just enough off rhythm to deny him orgasm.

"Do you want to come like this, Severus?"

"No. Not yet. Please."

He lowered his mouth again, hollowing his cheeks to suck while pushing down on Snape's balls. He rubbed his own erection against Snape's leg, unable to resist the delicious friction. Snape obliged by moving his leg against him. He moaned and had to stop himself from actually humping Snape's leg. He'd never live that down.

"Something you want, Black?" The next minute Snape had shoved him off and hid him pinned, grinding their groins together, freeing Sirius with one hand so they were cock to cock. Oh God, so good.

"In you. Now."

Snape lowered his head to Black's and let his hair tease his face. "Oh no, I don't think so. Not yet." None too gently, he yanked Sirius's trousers off and lowered his mouth to him.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, yes." He thrashed as that unbelievable mouth closed on him. He grabbed fistfuls of dark hair, spreading his legs as far as they would go. Snape drew back, considering. He ran his tongue slowly down the heavy sac, down, down to circle the sweet puckered entrance. Sirius jerked up and pushed him roughly away. He paused to still his trembling, and knew Snape's eyes were on him, curious and intent.

"Remus," he said quickly. "Give me some help here. I think Severus is getting rapidly out of hand."

He pushed Snape off him and reached for the oil Remus pressed into his hand. Snape was watching him from the floor with unreadable eyes. He slicked himself and ran a finger up Snape's cleft.

"Turn over." Snape hesitated a moment, then rolled on his side, one leg drawn up. Sirius pushed his slick cock against his entrance and in one vicious thrust entered him. Snape stiffened and cried out.

"Too rough?" he husked in his ear.

Snape shook his head. "Just-give me a minute."

Sirius began small thrusting motions, holding himself back as much as he was able. He was so tight, so unbelievably good, it was all he could do not to pound into him. He wrapped his arms around Snape's chest and bit hard on his neck, sucking and licking his way up to his ear. He thrust his tongue in the ear and felt him tremble.

"If it's too much tell me," he panted in between thrusts.

"No. Not too much." Snape arched his neck backward and Sirius knew what he sought. He brought his mouth around to Snape's and their tongues slid against each other. Of a sudden Snape broke off with a cry. Sirius glanced down and saw what was possibly the hottest sight he had ever seen. Remus's mouth was clamped to Snape's cock, sucking him fiercely. Snape's head lolled backward.

"Sweet God," he moaned. "Oh, yes." He pushed backward, impaling himself on Sirius's cock, then forward into Lupin's waiting mouth. He reached his arms up around Sirius's neck and pulled him close.

"Harder. Let go."

That was all the invitation he needed. He pulled out partway and thrust in again as hard as he could, burying himself balls-deep. He hooked an arm under Snape's leg to open him more. Remus's mouth was working him furiously. He could see Remus fisting himself in time to his sucking. In a burst of inspiration he reached down for Remus, who quickly moved himself so his cock was within Sirius's reach.

He let himself go completely then, driving into Snape, his hand flying on Remus's cock. It was Snape's orgasm that finished them. With a hoarse cry, Snape gave one last push back onto Sirius and forward into Remus's mouth, thrusting himself helplessly, arching so far Sirius could barely hold him. His muscles clamped so hard it was almost painful, and Sirius felt his orgasm wash over him, pulling him under, as he saw Remus's throat working to swallow the flood of Snape's semen, Remus's own warm seed gushing over his hand, coating him and setting off the second wave of his orgasm that left him pumping frantically, panting, neurons firing spasmodically until he collapsed shaking against the warm slick back and the arms that reached for him as he fell.

* * *

I can't have passed out, was his first thought on waking. Remus will never let me live it down. He opened his eyes and met two large dark ones staring down at him. He was dimly conscious of a hand stroking his chest.

"Well, thank God. I was just trying to figure out how I was going to explain to Albus that I had killed both of you at once."

Sirius raised his head enough to glance in Remus's direction. Predictably, he was out cold. He gave a low chuckle.

"I must be developing a tolerance. I hardly feel hung over at all."

"That's because you're still high, you idiot. You've only been out five minutes."

"Oh." He tried to sit up but gave it up, letting his head fall back. Someone had put a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket. "My God. You-that was incredible."

"It was, rather."

The eyes were still on him, watching him, the hand still resting on his chest.

"Black."

"Hm."

"I can help you if you'll let me."

His body went stiff. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Snape watched him for another minute, then slowly lowered his head to his. When he found Sirius's lips, his kiss was surprisingly gentle and slow. Sirius opened to him, curling his arms around him and pulling him closer.

"How did you learn to be such an amazing kisser, hm?"

Snape did not answer but pulled back, dusting light kisses along Sirius's jaw, chin, neck, rasping his stubble on his cheek. It was an unaccountably tender action, and unbearably arousing. Sirius sighed.

"What's the matter?"

"I wish-"

"What?"

"I wish I weren't going forty so I could fuck you some more."

Snape gave a sardonic smile. "Black."

"Mm-hm."

"Tell me why you pushed me away when I tried to touch your arse, earlier."

Sirius shoved him off and sat up. "Leave it alone, Snape. It's just not something I care for, all right?'

"Black. There's a difference between not caring for something and breaking into a cold sweat at the mere suggestion of it."

"Fuck you. You know why I don't care for it."

"What happened to you in Azkaban, Black?"

"You know what - Why the hell don't you just leave it alone?"

"Because I think you need to say it."

"Fuck what you think." He moved several feet away and ran his hands through his hair. "Jesus. Every time I think you might be partially human, your personality surfaces. Get the fuck out of here."

"I can't."

"Why is that?"

"I'm too stoned to be out in those corridors. Too stoned to walk, probably. It would be as much as my job is worth. Granted that you loathe me, but do you really want me sacked?"

"Why not? You did it to Remus."

"Lupin has his job back."

"No thanks to you, I'll wager, you jealous bastard. Can't stand it, can you, that he has the job you've always wanted, and that he's better at it than you could ever be. Better at most things, actually. He may be a werewolf but he's more of a man than you. And more of a lay, to tell the truth."

Snape said nothing, just watched him. After a minute he rose unsteadily and began gathering his clothes. He pulled on his trousers and shirt in silence. Sirius watched the wall until the door clicked shut, then he gave it a vicious punch. The pain in his hand made him feel slightly better.

"That was just about the most incredibly stupid thing I have ever witnessed."

"Shut up, Remus."

* * *

Sirius let six weeks go by before he paid Harry another visit. He owled him regularly, and chatted on and off with Remus, but had too much to do to get away just now, or so he told himself. He had bought a dilapidated cottage by the sea and was busy fixing it up for the summer, when Harry would be coming to stay. He bought books on architectural magic (Magical Home Repair, Spackling with Sparkle, Fixing your Foundations with Finesse, Wandwork for your Woodwork) and set to making the place habitable. It was only because the local real estate office regarded it as unsuited for human habitation that he had been able to afford it at all.

It was one afternoon while squinting at the dining room wall wondering what was the difference between seashell buff and lambswool taupe that it hit him. He had not seen another human being for two weeks. He set his wand and paint brush down on his copy of Magical Interiors. Two weeks. At this rate he would be a hermit before he was fifty.

He glared at the wall, then at his stack of how-to books and assortment of paintbrushes. Pathetic, he thought. He reached for his robes and threw a pinch of Floo powder in the fireplace.

"The Three Broomsticks," he said in a clear voice as he stepped in.

He had been sure he was coming to see Remus and apologise for being so wrapped up in his house repairs that he hadn't been much of a friend. Or that he was coming to spend some time with Harry before his term finals. So how it was that he was standing outside the door to the dungeons he had no idea. He lifted his hand to knock, then thought better of it. He hesitated for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

"Come."

He pushed the heavy door to Snape's office open. He realised now Snape never looked up when the door opened. Part of his method of intimidation, no doubt. He shut the door quietly and stood there, waiting.

"Was there something you wanted, Black?" The voice was even more cold and formal than usual.

He cleared his throat. "I wanted to apologise."

Snape gave the barest glance up from his book. "For which offence against decency in particular?"

"For the things I said six weeks ago."

Snape frowned as though trying to recollect. "I have no idea what you are on about. Now stand aside, you are in my light."

Sirius moved to one side. He stood there for another moment, but the silence was a blank wall. He nodded.

"Right then. I do realise it's utterly meaningless to you, but I am sorry. I was angry and meant none of it. Especially," he licked his lips. "Especially not the last bit."

Snape made no response, but continued reading as though Black were not there. "Right," Sirius muttered, and stalked out. Snape remained unmoving after Black left, his book open on his lap. But he did not turn the page for a long time.

* * *

"So, you've decided against frolicking on the golden shores of Majorca this summer?" Remus handed him a cup of tea, carefully fresh, with a lemon wedge.

Sirius laughed. "The shack I've bought pretty much decided against it for me. Besides, what young man wouldn't prefer to spend his summer in a mouldy, deserted cottage with his old godfather, rather then cavorting through the surf with bikini-clad maidens? I ask you."

"Harry'd spend his summer delousing Fang if you were going to be there with him. He'll love it. When do I get to see it?"

Sirius stretched. "I was just thinking. Term ends this week, right? Why don't you come down after that. Bring your stacks of papers with you if you must. We can frolic in the surf after a hard day's work."

"Yes, nothing says frolic like the Northumbrian coast in December."

"Scoff all you like. You'll be singing a different tune come August."

"Thank you for not saying June. I'd love to, Sirius. I'll be down at the end of the week, if you'll have me."

"Great." He set his teacup aside. "Now all I've got to do is track down Harry. Doubtless he's in the library."

"Doubtless," Remus said with a laugh. "Hermione's probably got him and Ron both lashed to a chair. You know," he mused, "you might ought to think about inviting one of them down, too. Or both. Well, Ron's probably bound to spend his vac at the Burrow, but Hermione might be free. Harry would love it."

Sirius nodded thoughtfully. "I don't suppose they'd mind sleeping on sofas and such."

Remus was squinting at the fire in the way that Sirius had known since they were first years meant he had Something To Say.

"What is it? Out with it. I can tell you're stewing about something."

"No, not really. Just wondering if I'm the only one you're inviting."

"I just told you, Harry and maybe Hermione and Ron. Whom else did you have in mind?"

Remus tipped his chair back. "You know, Sirius, I'm not actually an idiot."

He could think of no response to that one. They watched the same log in the fire crumble to cinders. "I never thought you were," he said softly.

"Yes, you did. You have." He paused as though searching for words, or at least the ones he could say. "For the last four years, you have kept our friendship very carefully on-I don't even know what to call it. A superficial level, maybe. Where it's all about drinking butterbeers together and talking about Quidditch, or Harry, or the war, or anything and everything that doesn't have anything to do with you or me or anything remotely. . . . . I don't know. All I know is, it never used to be that way. And I don't know how to change it back, but I'd give anything if I could."

He stopped and dared a glance at Sirius, who continued to stare into the fire. "I know I'm not Jamie. I can't change what happened. But I am still myself, and I am still your friend."

Sirius rose and rubbed the back of his neck. He pulled on his overcoat and tossed his scarf around him. "I know," he said quietly at the door. "But I'm not myself. And you're not Jamie." The draft he let in from the corridor sparked the fire to embers, but did not entirely account for the chill that settled on the room after the door clicked shut.

* * *

 

**Chapter Two: Christmas at the Cottage**

As it turned out, it was the happiest Christmas Sirius could remember, though that wasn't saying much. Many of his earliest memories were gone, eaten by Dementors or by his own tortured mind folding in on itself during the long dark of Azkaban. No one knew he was missing memories, of course-his immediate family were all dead, and most of his memories from about twelve on were intact. There were disturbing lacunae, of course, but he covered them. The memories he had lost were all of specific events, most of them holidays or important events, as though his mind were a relief map and the mountaintops had been leveled, leaving only the silt-filled valleys of ordinary experience. He remembered how he had always taken his tea, but not, for instance, his grandfather's death or his eleventh birthday.

But of the few he could recall, this Christmas was one of the best. Harry and Hermione spent the whole holiday at the cottage, and Hermione had taken over the decorating with the kind of single-mindedness she normally reserved for potions finals. She was always asking Sirius to look at paint chips that all looked the exact same colour to him, and holding forth on the difference between celadon and cerulean. Harry just smiled and rolled his eyes and said it was a mercy she was at least letting them decorate the Christmas tree. Remus did not enlighten him that Hermione had come downstairs the night after they had decorated and re-arranged all the ornaments while the house was sleeping.

And then on Christmas night, wonder of wonders, Snape had shown up with an exquisite bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape in one hand and a small linen bag in the other. Sirius had dashed off an owl on Christmas morning in a burst of holiday spirits, not expecting a response, but filled with an overflow of good cheer that made him feel generous. Come join us, it had said. SB, he had scrawled at the bottom, along with a set of apparating co-ordinates. Harry had looked as though he wanted to dive under the sofa cushions when Snape appeared in the doorway, and Hermione's jaw had simply dropped. Remus and Sirius, however, treated his presence as perfectly normal, and soon Harry and Hermione were relaxed enough to manage nervous smiles. Fortunately, Mrs. Weasley had owled them earlier about spending Christmas night at the Burrow, so they ducked out the fireplace in a flash of Floo powder with only a little more haste than was seemly.

"So," Remus said after they had finished off the bottle of Chateauneuf with a haste that had made Snape scowl. "Whatever shall we do?" He stretched out further in the tatty chaise by the fire, casting a mischievous glance at the little bag on the mantel.

"Oh, very well," Snape drawled, reaching into his robes for the slender carved pipe. "But this is not to be construed as an invitation to your usual carnal mayhem. Do try to keep your hands to yourself, for once."

Sirius snorted. "Shut up, you bleeding hypocrite, and hand it over."

"And I refuse to listen to any of your atrocious music."

"I suppose your idea of mood music is Wagner."

"Well, the Gotterdammerung does leap to mind. Here, hand it to Lupin."

They smoked for a while in silence before Sirius spoke. "Besides, doesn't matter anyway. I haven't got the system hooked up yet."

"That statement is utterly unintelligible to me."

Remus laughed and coughed a cloud of bluish smoke. "Should we bank this fire? It's entirely possible Harry and Hermione might be using it at some point, and they might not appreciate landing in a roaring blaze."

"No, they'll be gone all night, probably. Hermione will make him stay. She hasn't seen Ron all week."

Remus shot him a sharp look. "Sirius. Can you possibly have missed the fact that your godson and the Head Girl are shagging like bunnies in your guest bedroom?"

"Nonsense. Harry stays right on this sofa all night. It is unkind to throw incontrovertible truth in my face like that."

"Sorry. Won't happen again. Hand the pipe to Severus."

"Well," said Sirius, as he leaned to hand the pipe across the sofa, "if we can't have music, we should make our own. Remus, you begin. Any nineteenth century aria of your choosing."

"Not a chance. Do you think we're stoned enough for Greatest?"

"God. I can't believe you remember that."

Snape stirred on his end of the sofa. He stretched his legs out, careful to keep them well clear of Sirius. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Remus chuckled. "It's a game Jamie thought up, one night when we were pissed as hell. You ask a series of questions-greatest love, greatest hate, anything like that. Everyone has to answer, and you take turns proposing."

"How unbelievably juvenile."

"Shut up, Snape. Just for that remark, you have to propose first. We're waiting."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Very well." He sighed heavily. "Greatest regret." There was a moment of silence as they considered.

"That's easy for me. Killing James and Lily."

Remus lifted his head from its cushion. "That's not bloody true, Sirius, and you well know it. We're not going through this again, not another ruddy evening spent watching you beat yourself up for what Peter did."

"I was the one who had the brilliant idea of making him Secret Keeper in the first place."

"But you can't-"

"Be quiet, the both of you. Your turn, Lupin."

Remus subsided. "All right. I suppose mine is easy too. Not believing Sirius when he told me sixteen years ago he was innocent."

A silence fell. "That wouldn't have accomplished anything, Remus," he said wearily.

"No. It wouldn't have changed the outcome of your trial. But it might have changed the outcome of other things."

"It wouldn't have changed a goddamn thing. Just drop it." He rose and poured them all a few fingers of whiskey in shot glasses. "Here. Take the edge off." Snape snorted, but knocked it back. "Answer your own question, Snape."

Snape was lost in thought, contemplating the ceiling. "You are fortunate, both of you," he mused. "You each have a lifetime in which the poor choices are obvious by their rarity. Whereas my life is so defined by them, that I can hardly choose among them." He drummed his fingers on his chest. "I suppose. . . choosing to go ice skating on February the twenty-third of 1974."

His two companions glanced at each other. "What the hell happened on the twenty-third of February, Snape?"

"My older brother died. He was ice skating. I had made him promise to teach me. We had been raised in Italy, in the south. Very little ice or snow of any description. After we moved to England, I wanted to learn. He tried to teach me on the lake behind our stepfather's house. The ice was brittle in the center. He fell through and I couldn't save him. I was not strong enough. There was nothing I could do."

No one said anything. Finally Remus broke the silence. "What would have been different if he had lived, Severus?"

"Everything," he answered softly. They sat quietly, watching the too-large log in the center of the fireplace collapse on itself in a shower of red sparks. They passed the pipe back and forth for a long while in the darkening room.

At last Sirius spoke in a voice so still and small it was barely heard. "With rue my heart is laden," he whispered, "For golden friends I had; For many a rose-lipt maiden, and many a lightfoot lad."

On his end of the sofa, Snape's head turned. "By brooks too broad for leaping, the lightfoot boys are laid," he murmured. "The rose-lipt girls are sleeping, in fields where roses fade."

Remus lifted his whiskey. "To rose-lipt maidens."

"Lightfoot lads." Three glasses clinked in the firelight.

* * *

"Holy hell." Harry stood on the hearth, smudged in soot and cinders, surveying the damage. "I am not believing this." He shook his head at the sight that greeted them: three passed-out wizards lying drunk and disheveled on the floor, piled on the rug like so many throw cushions.

Hermione sniffed the air. "That's not all I'm not believing." She spied the long-handled pipe lying beside Sirius on the floor. "Oh my God." She made an odd little noise, and Harry turned to look at her. "They're-Harry, I think they're stoned." She collapsed in giggles. "I don't believe it."

Harry looked from Sirius to Lupin to Snape and back again in bewilderment. "No fucking way," he whispered. "No way." He broke into a grin. "Oh, I am definitely using this. Definitely."

"Come on. Looks like we've got the upstairs to ourselves tonight."

Harry grabbed her wrist and pulled her in for a quick kiss. Together they picked their way over the tangle of limbs to the hallway, stifling their giggles until they made it upstairs. Anyone conscious on the first floor could not have mistaken the howls of laughter that floated down the narrow staircase as soon as the door closed behind them.

* * *

Snape cracked a tentative eye. Darkness and silence, and increasing cold. The fire had long since died, and the wind whistled through the poorly caulked window frames. He lifted his head from its comfortable resting spot, which turned out to be Lupin's leg, to squint at his surroundings. He met a pair of eyes that glowed like a cat's in the dark.

"You awake?" the voice belonging to the eyes asked.

He groaned. "Unwillingly. What time is it?"

"Not sure. Two, maybe." He kept his voice down so as not to rouse Remus.

"Merlin. I've got to get out of here. I'm supposed to meet Minerva at seven."

"Over the holiday? Whatever for?"

Snape didn't answer for a minute. "She hasn't said, but I think I have some idea."

"You in trouble?"

He snorted. "Doubtless that as well. Probably I gave one of her precious Gryffindors a detention, or some other wild miscarriage of justice. But no, I think she has something else on her mind."

"Like what?"

"Like retirement."

Sirius propped himself up. "You can't mean it. I thought Hogwarts professors never retired. I thought they kept teaching long after their bodies expired, like Binns. He's been there since 1834, hasn't he? Why would Minerva even think about such a thing?"

Snape thought for a moment. "On the one hand, I think she's mad to consider it. But on the other. . . " he trailed off. "Since the war has ended, I suppose I can see her point. She has grandchildren, did you know that?" Sirius shook his head. "Long centuries ago, she was married. I'm not sure how many children she had, perhaps just the one, but there are grandchildren, and family whose lack she feels."

"Don't we all," Sirius said softly. "Snape," he said after a bit.

"Mm."

"You said last night you were raised in Italy. Why was that?"

Snape rolled over to look at him. "Because I am Italian, of course."

"On your mother's or your father's side?"

"On both, actually."

"Wait a minute. Are you telling me not a drop of English blood swims in your stiffly starched veins?"

"Not a bit of it. On some days, it is the only thing that keeps Minerva still speaking to me."

Sirius gave a low chuckle. "Fire-breathing Scot. God love her. So what's your name, then?"

Snape hesitated. "Don't be ridiculous. You know my name."

"Don't tell me Severus Snape is the name you were born with. Out with it."

He sighed. "My name is- or was- Alessandro Severo di Mantoleschi da Volci." His voice licked and curled around the smoky syllables of his name.

Sirius sat all the way up. "Say it again."

He complied. "That's the most utterly gorgeous name I've ever heard. Severo? Is that what they called you?"

"Well, everyone except my mother, who always called me Sandro. Quite immune to my pleas on that score, she was."

"So Sebastian Snape was your stepfather."

"Yes."

"Did you like him?"

"No. I hated him."

He weighed his next question. "How old were you when you moved? Must have been pretty young, to have no trace of an accent."

"No, actually, I was nine."

"Did you speak English before you moved here?"

"Not a word."

"How. . . " he looked for the words. "How did you do it?"

"My stepfather was a very persuasive tutor."

Sirius chewed on this for a bit. Conversations with Snape, he had learned, were like navigating an ice field-what was spoken was never more than the tip of the berg that lurked beneath the surface, ready to gash you open. It took a careful oar and a steady hand on the wheel. He remembered the sullen, taciturn boy who had sat across from him on the Hogwarts Express that first day, casting imperious glares at any who dared to address him, arms tightly crossed on his battered valise.

He edged over to where Snape was half-lying, half-sitting. "Want to get up to some mischief?"

Snape regarded him with hooded eyes. "I am regrettably sober, Black. I try to confine my illicit activities to such times as I am unlikely to remember."

"I can always obliviate you."

"You're still stoned."

"Not a bit of it. Sober as a parson." He leaned in and brushed his lips on the angle of his jaw. "Please. I want you."

Snape appeared not to have noticed the kiss. "No you don't. Lupin will be conscious soon. Why don't you wait for him."

"I don't want Remus, I want you. As much as you want me. You're hard for me right now. Tell me you don't want what I can do for you. Tell me anyone else makes you come as hard as I do."

Snape groaned. "Damn you to hell," he muttered, pulling the other man to him. Their mouths met and tangled. Suddenly Sirius pushed him away.

"Let's get upstairs."

"Why?"

"Because Remus has a disturbing habit of not actually being asleep. And because I don't want an audience. I want you sober. And alone." He yanked him to his feet, and somehow they made it halfway up the stairs before their need overtook them. Snape had him pressed against the stair rail, pulling his shirt out, sucking at the base of his neck. Their kisses were sloppy and hungry.

"No way. All the way upstairs." Sirius shoved him away and stumbled up the stairs. They practically fell through the door to his room. They fell on each other with violence, tearing and clutching. He slammed Snape against the door and pushed their groins together. The moan Snape released sent cold licks of fire down his chest.

"Get your goddamn clothes off. Now." He tore at Snape's shirt, but Snape was busy freeing his cock from its prison of cloth, pulling him in to grind on his own swollen cock.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Taking the edge off."

"God, I can't stand it. I want you now." Sirius tangled his hands in the silken hair brushing his face and rocked against him, lost in the sweet friction.

"Um. . ..Sirius?"

They froze.

The timid voice spoke again from the dark. "Sirius? This room is sort of. . taken. Do you want us to leave?"

Oh, fuck. Sirius closed his eyes. This had not just happened. He cleared his throat and tried to make the best of what was clearly an unsalvageable situation.

"Ah, no, Harry, that's all right. We'll uh-I'll just go down the hall." Somehow he got the door open and lurched through it, Snape hard on his heels. In the hallway they collapsed against the wall, frozen in horror.

* * *

"Harry. You're going to have to inhale eventually."

"Just give me a minute." He blinked. "Fuck. I did not just see that."

Hermione propped herself up, pulling the sheet around her. "Your own bloody fault for suggesting we take Sirius's bed. That turned out well."

"It's bigger! And it's not like he was going to be using it! How the hell was I supposed to know he-" He stopped and tore at his hair.

She stretched languidly. "Come on, Harry. Don't be such a stick. He may be your godfather, but he's human. Surely you didn't think he was a monk?"

He glared at her. "Of course not. But I didn't think. . . "

She narrowed her eyes. "Harry, don't you dare say something that will make me boot you out of this bed."

"That was not what I was going to say. But Snape? Snape, of all people?"

"Oh quiet down, you big baby. It's obvious, if you think about it. And besides," she mused. "It was kind of hot."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Really."

"Really." She plucked at the covers he had wrapped himself in. "Come over here. Taking the edge off doesn't sound like such a bad idea to me."

"Granger, you're insatiable."

"Mm. You love it."

* * *

Sirius clicked the door to the spare bedroom quietly shut and leaned his head against it. Fuck. Oh, Jesus fuck.

"I should probably go."

"No." He snapped his head up. "Don't you dare. Just give me a minute. I'm sure I'll recover."

Snape ran an assessing hand over the softening lump in his trousers. "I'm not so sure."

"Mm. Keep doing that."

"What, this?"

"Oh. How do you-oh."

Snape's mouth closed on his in a long slow kiss. He tugged the trousers off him, then the shirt. He ran a hand over Sirius's chest, his gaze impassive. Sirius brought his hands up to his shoulders and began to push him back, but Snape's hands caught his in an iron grip.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't. Let me."

Sirius said nothing, but dropped his hands. He let himself lean back against the door, let his eyes slide shut. No question, Snape was good at this. His mouth was on his neck, his nipples, his navel, light ghosting teases that made him twitch and arch, and the hands, oh those glorious hands, coaxing him to hardness again, brushing his back, his hips, all the planes and dips and lines that cried out for his touch. The thought floated through his mind that it had been longer than he remembered since anyone had paid such loving attention to his body, and he sank further into the deceptive gentleness. A trail of warmth followed Snape's mouth, and when that delicious mouth closed on his cock, his orgasm caught him unawares, and he pulsed into that waiting throat in a white-hot flood of pleasure, not even knowing what idiocy he cried out as he fell back limp against the door.

He felt Snape guide him gently to the bed and lay him down, still licking and kissing with those feather touches that he had not known could bring him to such violent orgasm. He was beginning all over again, even more slowly this time, and Sirius was too tired and too adrift to tell him to stop, that there was no way he would be capable of more. He continued to let himself float, the unbearable tenderness of Snape's ministrations easing something solid in his chest. There was no fuck me, no get in me now, no do it like this, no demands placed on him other than to lie there and take everything poured out on him like altar warmed beneath libation.

And when Snape's finger brushed against his entrance, he felt no panic, nothing but spreading warmth and the desire for more, and the slicked finger was in him before he knew it, and nothing had ever felt so good, so needed. He arched and pushed down on the finger, wanting more, crying for more, and Snape's mouth was at his ear, murmuring impossible things to him, things Snape could never have said, as those questing fingers sought and found the sweet spot and held there as he shuddered and begged. And only then did Snape ease his weight down on him and slide inside, shaking with his own repressed need as they rocked against one another. Sirius brought his legs up to circle his waist and drive him deeper, and Snape buried his face in Sirius's neck with a small cry, and his back shook with it, or with the force of Sirius's shaking, and he found Snape's eyes and their naked hunger brought him to his second orgasm, more powerful and deeper than the first, driving up into the warm body pressed above him as Snape gasped and let himself go at last, finding his release on a strangled cry as they clutched at each other like drowning men.

* * *

Remus considered the eggs. He had tried twice and failed to get the things to soft-boil, having produced instead five white bricks with grey-green yolks that looked a week past hard-boiled. With a sigh he gave it up and cracked the remaining eggs in a bowl to scramble them. It would have to do. He was just slipping the toast onto the toast rack in the kitchen fireplace when he heard Snape's unmistakable tread on the stair.

"Good morning, Severus."

The tread stopped in the kitchen doorway. "Lupin? What in God's name are you doing?"

"Making breakfast, of course. Care for some?"

"No, by all that's holy. How you can contemplate it is beyond me. Though I wouldn't say no to coffee."

"On the counter."

Snape knocked back a mug of the black sludge without batting an eye. "Hideous. What sort of an idiot could fail in making coffee?" He set his mug in the sink.

"You're welcome. Quite the morning person, aren't you?"

A disdainful noise was his only answer as Snape headed to the door.

"Going so soon?"

"I have an early morning appointment. Some of us take our jobs seriously."

"All right then. See you next week."

Snape was gone without a reply. Remus returned to his contemplation of the eggs, which had omeletted in the time he was talking to Snape. With an oath he tossed them in the sink and pulled out more bread.

Harry stumbled in, rubbing a hand through his hair. "'Morning. Wha's for breakfast?"

"Toast," he replied savagely, skewering more on the fork and swinging it into the fire.

"Great. Any coffee?"

"Maybe."

Harry looked at him strangely and poured himself a cup. He peered into it cautiously. "What did you use to make it?"

"Oh, for-coffee beans, from the coffee plant. Drink it and be grateful."

Harry took a tiny sip and licked his lips. "It's marvelous, Remus. Thank you."

"Oh, shut up."

They ate their toast and sludge in silence. Harry gave up on trying to spread the cold butter and stabbed at the toast till it crumbled. Sirius shuffled in a moment later, followed by a perky and neatly attired Hermione. The three men squinted at her resentfully. Sirius poured himself an enormous mug of the coffee, oblivious to Harry's surreptitious motions. He gagged and spat in the sink.

"Right. That's it." Remus pushed back his chair. "Next time you want breakfast, make it yourself. It's no treat for me, having to sit here counting the love bites on your collective necks, which I'd like to wring, by the way. Thank you very much to all and sundry who left me lying on the hard floor last night without so much as a blanket. Or a pillow. And it was cold as hell, and I've got a crick in my neck and a headache that I'm sure I did nothing to deserve. Unlike certain people."

Sirius managed a laugh. "I'm sorry, Remus. Really I am."

"Save your insincerity. I'll be in the garden if anyone wants me. Which of course they don't."

"Remus, come on. It's around three degrees out there. You're really going to go sit in the snow?"

"I'm going to have a nice brisk walk around the cove. Happy bloody Christmas to all of you." Lupin grabbed his coat from the pegs and trudged out the back door in an icy blast.

The three of them sat in silence for a moment among the toast shards. Sirius looked up from contemplating his hands.

"Harry. Hermione. We should probably have a conversation we're all longing not to have."

Harry jumped in. "I'm so sorry, Sirius. I know we had no right to invade your bedroom like that, it's just-we thought-I'm sorry, there's no excuse, I know-"

"Harry." He cut him off. "I'm not angry. Of course you took my bed. You had no reason to think I would be needing it. And it's bigger, I know that. Honestly, I'm not such an idiot as not to know why you would need a bigger bed."

Hermione looked as though she wanted to sink through the floor.

"The conversation I want to have with you-with both of you-is rather more delicate than that." He met Harry's eyes. "Is there anything you want to ask me, Harry?"

"Um. If this is the facts of life talk, I think I'm all right there."

Sirius smiled slightly. "So I gather. I meant, is there anything you wanted to ask about me?"

Harry shifted his gaze from Sirius to Hermione to the floor. "Oh. You mean about. . . Well. Um, yes I suppose so. I mean. . . this may sound idiotic, but -- do you. . . that is, are you. . . gay?"

Sirius regarded him thoughtfully. He got up and dug around behind the sugar for his pack of cigarettes, and lit one off the stove. "It's not an idiotic question, Harry, but let me ask you one before I answer. Would it make a difference to our relationship if I said yes?"

Harry lifted his eyes. "No," he said confidently. "Not in the least. Nothing could ever do that. Ever."

Sirius nodded. "That wasn't some sort of test, Harry. It was an honest question. You were raised by Muggles, and their attitudes about sexuality are rather different from what holds true in the wizarding world. Do you-are you aware of that?"

Harry looked bewildered, but Hermione cleared her throat. "Well," she began, "I have wondered. . . I mean, there are some things you read in the history books, particularly for History of Magic, that seem to imply most wizards and witches are. . . .well. . . "

"I think bisexual is the term you are looking for there, Hermione. It's the word that applies to me, and to most witches and wizards."

"It does? I mean-they are?" Harry's eyes were wide.

Sirius frowned. "Harry, has no one at Hogwarts talked to you about this?"

He exchanged glances with Hermione. Mutely, they shook their heads.

"Why - that is. . ." Hermione trailed off into a blush.

"You mean, why is that the case? Who knows. Perhaps because exercising magic makes one more open to the sexual currents others give off, perhaps as some sort of population control on the wizarding world. I couldn't say. Anyway, there it is. Though people these days tend not to talk about it in their fierce desire to be like Muggles in all things."

"Says the man with a state of the art CD system and a cell phone." Harry said with a grin.

"Impudent whelp." Sirius blew a cloud of smoke and cuffed his head playfully, and Harry wondered if he was consciously quoting Snape.

"Sirius?"

"Yes, Hermione?"

"Some things that I've read seem to imply. . . well, for instance-is it true that Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin were lovers?"

He nodded. "That's the rumour. Though you'd have to ask Dumbledore. I'm sure he knows more about it than I do."

"But-some other histories talk about them as if they were always at each other's throats, enemies almost. Are they not telling the truth?"

He ashed in the sink. "I think both sources are, if you want my opinion. Sometimes," he said slowly, "sometimes those are not mutually exclusive things, being lovers and enemies, I mean."

"Which kind of brings us back to the topic at hand," Harry interjected. Sirius gave him a sharp look.

"That was not the topic at hand, Harry. I'll discuss most anything with you, but my choice of lovers is not open for debate. "

It was the firmest tone he had ever heard Sirius use with him, and his eyes dropped. Sirius's quiet irritation was somehow more terrifying than Uncle Vernon in a spitting rage.

"I know, Sirius. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Your private life is your private life."

"Yes, it is." He peered out the window. "Good God. Remus is going to catch his death out there. I'd better go sweet talk him. There's no way I'm going out there as a human." In one fluid motion, he dropped to all fours and the large shaggy shape of Padfoot filled the kitchen. He trotted to the door and knocked the latch open with a paw.

Hermione began clearing the table and putting things away. Harry swiped the pack of cigarettes and shook one out. "Well, that was interesting," he said.

Hermione said nothing but began rinsing dishes. Her face was set as though she were thinking. "Harry," she said at last.

"What?" He stood up from the stove where he had been trying to imitate Sirius by lighting one off the fire. A thin line of smoke curled up from the edge of his bangs.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Hermione swatted at his hair with the dishrag. She pulled her wand from her skirt pocket. "Incendio," she declared, and the tip of Harry's cigarette glowed red.

"Thanks. What did you start to say?"

She bit her lip. "It can wait."

"No it can't. Tell me."

"Well." She leaned on the counter. "Ron and I were talking last night."

"Uh-huh."

"I really think-Harry, I think we ought to stop fooling around."

"Fine."

"No, now listen to me, Harry. We're going into our final term at school, and things that used not to matter-well, they do. We have to start being more-more responsible. I have to start being more responsible. And what we're doing-what I'm doing-would hurt Ron dreadfully. I just can't do this anymore. Please, please, tell me you understand."

He smashed the cigarette on the drainboard. "You know," he said viciously, "just because the sex with Ron is awful doesn't mean the relationship is necessarily profound."

"And just because we shag like rabbits doesn't mean we're soulmates."

"Well, fuck you too, Hermione," he said as he slammed the kitchen door behind him.

She tossed the dishrag into the sink with a sigh.

* * *

Sirius held the piece of parchment to the light and read it for the third time.

_Black_, (it read)

We need to talk at your earliest possible convenience. Send reply by this owl.

S.S.

He tapped it against his knee. It had been almost six weeks since Christmas, and they had not exchanged a word since Christmas night. Snape had dressed quietly that morning, but when he had seen Sirius's eyes on him, he had come to sit on the bed. Their eyes had watched each other.

"Good-bye then Black," he had said.

"Good-bye then Snape," had been his reply. It had seemed like enough. After all, Sirius was not the sort to confuse fucking (even the most admittedly fabulous fucking of his life) with something else. He wondered absently if his school days would have been any different had he known what an incredible lay Severus Snape was back then. He shoved the memory aside; it brushed shoulders with others, too painful to contemplate.

He searched out a quill and scrawled his reply on the back of the parchment, gave the owl a nibble of cracker, shooed it on its way, and went to pull on his robes.

* * *

"Come."

He pushed open the door, which creaked in the exact same spot as before. Once again, Snape did not look up.

"Ah, Black. I see your disdain for punctuality is one thing the Aurors did not manage to beat out of you."

It was a remark designed to flick on the raw, and it did. "I'm here, Snape. What the hell do you want?"

He looked up for the first time. "Don't stand there in my doorway. Come in and sit down. That is the custom in polite society, about which you must have read. Milk or sugar?"

"Are you actually offering me tea? Just tell me what it is you want and let me go find Harry."

Snape rose. "Oh, swallow your pique and sit down. There's something I need to discuss with you, and you're going to want to hear it."

"All right," he said cautiously, sitting on the far edge of a stool. "Let's hear it."

Snape paced a moment. "Black, what are your plans for your life?"

"I beg your pardon? If you asked what I think you did, I'm pretty sure the answer is none of your bloody business."

"I ask because it is now four years since your release- or escape, properly speaking, from Azkaban, and almost a year and a half since your name was cleared. Yet in that time I have not noticed you to have any particular plans for the remainder of your life other than to quietly mildew in that nasty little hole of a house you've purchased, get high on every possible occasion, and buy gifts for Potter that you clearly can't afford. Is there something I'm missing?"

"Why you supercilious-"

"While it is true that your time in Azkaban has doubtless had a deleterious effect on your health, and may have significantly shortened your lifespan, I think your plan could stand a little improvement, even for whatever time you may have left to your wretched life."

Sirius rose and flung open the door. "I don't know what the hell this is about, Snape, but it ends now. Fuck off and stay the hell out of my life, you arrogant prick."

"Black. Close that door. The draft from the hallway is considerable. I am trying to offer you a job, you bloody great idiot."

He let the door swing shut with a small click. He narrowed his eyes. "What did you say?"

"I said, I am offering you a job. Teaching, here at Hogwarts. Minerva is retiring at the end of this term, and while there are a few people I can think of who might be qualified to fill her position, your name is at the top of that list. You are the most gifted Animagus since-well, since Minerva McGonagall. I realise you will probably scoff at the opportunity, but I urge you to consider it. You would bring honour to Hogwarts and, not insignificantly, some sort of purpose to your aimless and pathetic existence."

"That's quite the pitch you've got there. You might want to work on that before your next hire. Why are you the one asking me this in the first place? Why isn't Albus?"

"Because hiring decisions are made by the Deputy Headmaster."

"And that's you now?"

"Indeed."

Sirius sat back down on his stool. "I don't understand."

"Oh for heaven's sake. Into which language do you require it to be translated? I am offering you a job. Consider it if you like, but don't take too long about it. If you turn me down I want a chance at Drood or Mortlake."

"You want me to teach Transfiguration."

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Shall I write it out for you?"

Sirius watched him. "Why?"

"For all the reasons I mentioned before. Must I repeat myself endlessly?"

"You require copious amounts of drugs to even tolerate my company, Snape. Why would you want me as your colleague?"

"Because," he sighed, "I want what is best for Hogwarts. And for all your irritating qualities, you are the best. Also, it is not true that I require drugs to abide you. We seem to be doing quite well now."

"Yes, like a house afire." He stood. "I don't require time to think it over. I accept, and I thank you for your offer, however insultingly worded."

"Excellent. Now. A Hogwarts custom must be observed." He pulled out a bottle from a cabinet and two cut glass tumblers. He poured two drinks and handed one to Sirius, raising his glass. "Repeat after me." Sirius hesitantly lifted his glass as Snape began in a loud solemn voice.

"Godric, Rowena, Helga, Salazar,  
May no strife our concord mar.  
Mouse, cracker, muffin, stork,  
Lemon, ferret, toasting fork.  
Keep us ever true to each,  
Kumquat, plum, persimmon, peach.  
Founders four, make firm our hearts,  
And may we not forget to wear  
Clean knickers on our bottom parts."

Snape looked at him expectantly.

"All right. Ahem." He cleared his throat and recited verbatim, only stumbling a little over the kumquats and persimmons. They clinked their glasses and drained them. Snape set his glass down.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Black."

* * *

 

**Chapter Three: The Prosecution's Witness**

"Excuse me, Professor?" Lupin looked up from his seventh year lecture on the breeding habits of vampires. Colin Creevey, his Head Boy badge glinting in the slant of October light, was standing nervously in the doorway. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir. But Professor Black said to give you this. He said it was important, sir."

"Yes, of course, Colin. Thank you." He took the small scrap of parchment and glanced at it. It was a moment before he spoke. "All right," he said, turning to his class. "Start reading on page four hundred and eleven. Creation of the nest. When I return I expect you all to be able to answer some questions on the kind of protective gear worn during mating. Miss Weasley, will you please be responsible for keeping order?"

He walked quickly out of the room. Murmurs and giggles erupted immediately. Cecil Storey leaned over to whisper something to Davey Bartlet, who elbowed Maurice Stokes, who sent a flawlessly crafted paper airplane zooming down to the front row. Ginny squashed it with her foot.

"The next person who makes a sound while Professor Lupin is gone will be reported for detention. Trophy cleaning detail. Is that clear?"

The murmurs subsided. The Head Girl's fuse was famously short, and her own house knew they could count on no favouritism from the last and fieriest of the Weasleys.

Remus strode quickly down the southeast corridor and pushed open the office door. He was still clutching the piece of parchment, and his face was flushed.

"When?" he demanded.

Sirius rose from behind his desk, swallowing his last bit of tea before pulling on his robes. "Last night. I just had the owl from Harry not ten minutes ago. I'm going to talk to Albus now."

"Alive?"

"Oh yes," he said, his voice deathly quiet. "And they better goddamn well keep him that way until I get there."

"At least until the trial, anyway."

Sirius shook his head. "Harry's owl seemed to imply there isn't going to be a trial. They've no need-apparently he can't confess fast enough. Turning over evidence right and left." He gave a twisted smile. "Apparently he's making quite a few people uncomfortable with his eager confessions, too. Some of those who are on easy terms with the Ministry these days would be more than happy to forget what they were doing during the War."

"I don't understand how this could have happened so quickly. Last I heard, the Ministry had no idea what became of the filthy rodent after Voldemort's death, and had no real leads. What turned up?"

"I've no idea. Harry doesn't write details, just says he was on a routine training exercise with Moody on the Outer Isles and all of a sudden Alastor gets an urgent summons to an unknown set of co-ordinates. Of course, he's not going to go in without cover-Alastor doesn't take a piss without cover-so he took Harry along with him. When they got there the place was swarming with Aurors, and within minutes they had him cornered in some abandoned garden shed. Didn't even put up much of a fight, apparently. Ruddy coward. Here, read it."

He tossed the letter to Remus. "I've got to go talk to Albus. I'm sure he'll know more. Are you coming?"

"No, I've got seventh year Gryffindors and Slytherins. I'll be scrubbing blood off the walls if I stay away too long."

"All right then." He paused at the door and turned. "You know, I thought I'd feel all these things when it finally happened. Like the things I felt when we had him cornered in the Shack that night. Rage, exultation, bloodlust. . . ." He sighed. "And all this time later, I think I just feel. . . satisfied. Like the final piece of the puzzle has fallen into place."

Remus met his eyes. "I know what you mean, mate."

"And sad," Sirius said softly. "Sad, I think. Because it makes James finally and truly dead, in a way. It's over, now. It's finally really over," he whispered.

"Yeah," Remus said faintly. He clasped Sirius's shoulder.

"Anyway." The fierce glow was back in Sirius's eyes. "I wish to hell I'd been the one to bring him in, but God, I'm glad we've got him."

Remus smiled grimly. "So am I, Paddy. And I'm glad Harry was there."

"Yeah. Nice bit of justice, that. Anyway. I'll tell you what I find out at dinner."

In a swish of robes, Professor Black was out the door. Remus leaned over and drained his tea, thinking.

* * *

The capture of Peter Pettigrew was all the school was able to talk about for the next few days. Each morning's edition of the Daily Prophet contained more lurid details of his career as Voldemort's henchman, and more flashing pictures of grim-faced Aurors holding up his broken wand as a trophy, or hustling him somewhere for questioning, or posing heroically beside the infamous garden shed. Once, there was even a small picture of Harry, standing at Alastor Moody's side and looking dashing in his Auror robes. The Gryffindor table had erupted in cheers, and Deputy Headmaster Snape had taken particular pleasure in confiscating every copy that crossed the threshold of his classroom.

It was some days before a member of the Ministry paid a call on Dumbledore at Hogwarts. The quiet speculation at the faculty high table was that the Minister was still smarting over having to acknowledge Dumbledore as Hero of the War and Leader of the Resistance, and was eager to take the opportunity to borrow a little glamour. Keeping Dumbledore out of the loop now was a petty but gratifying little revenge. The Minister's functionary arrived on the evening of the fifth day after the capture, trailing a small retinue and demanding the presence of the senior faculty in the headmaster's office to discuss the "Pettigrew situation." The senior faculty had been more than happy to keep him waiting, and were only just beginning to trickle in at half past seven.

"Ah, Professor Vector. Professor Flitwick. Take a seat. Have you seen Rolanda?" They wedged themselves into the enormous sofa between Professor Binns, who floated over to make room, and Sybil Trelawney, who was regarding their guest with a mournful air. Dumbledore peered at them severely over his glasses. "Whom else are we missing?"

"Black and Lupin, of course," drawled Snape from his chair by the fire. He wore a bored expression.

"Ah, here is Professor Lupin now. Remus, the others know him, so allow me to introduce Cyrus Dadger, Junior Under-Secretary of Information Dissemination and Obfuscation."

"How do you do." Remus extended his hand to the beefy little man, who shook it with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Professor. I've heard a lot about you." None of it good, was the unspoken coda to his sentence. Remus chose a corner of the sofa and made himself comfortable. "Is this everyone now?" The man was clearly irritated at the lackadaisical way the headmaster ran his staff meetings.

"Well, Professor Sprout sent word she might be quite late-the cramdillions are coming into bloom, and you know what that means. She's likely to be tied up for some time."

Dadger did not look as though he had any idea what that meant, but he grunted. "All right. I suppose that will have to do. Now what I wanted to say-"

"Ah, Sirius, here you are at last. We were just getting started. There's a seat over there. Our guest here is Mr. Cyrus Dadger, Junior Under-Secretary of Information Dissemination and Obliviation."

"Obfuscation."

"Quite right. My apologies. Pray continue." With a gracious gesture, Dumbledore handed him the floor. Dadger glared at Sirius, who had not extended his hand and was standing stock still and white faced in the center of the room.

"Will you be seated, Professor?" Sirius started as though he had been roused, and made his way to a chair in the far corner. Snape watched him with interest.

"Now. As I was trying to say. Of course you're all very curious to know whatever you can about the Pettigrew situation." He puffed out his chest. Snape examined his fingernails. "Rest assured, the Ministry will see justice done. There have been rumours," he allowed his eye to wander around the room, "that the Ministry might be only too happy to bury Pettigrew's confessions, seeing as how they might implicate prominent members of the wizarding community." He fixed Snape in his beady gaze. "I can assure you, such is not the case. The Ministry is determined to see that Pettigrew is made to suffer for his crimes, and that those crimes," he emphasised the last word, "are fully and publicly acknowledged. Even if-especially if-they have not been brought to light heretofore." He finished with another glance at Snape.

"Doubtless your students will have questions about the Pettigrew situation. Some of the younger ones might not have too many memories of the War. They might have questions to ask you. They might even be nervous, what with all this in the papers about Death Eaters and Dark Wizards. We at the Ministry want to make sure that people are not frightened or made uncomfortable by dredging up memories of times I'm sure we'd all rather forget. We want to reassure people. Well, most people," he said, with another glance in the direction of Snape, who was picking invisible lint off his robes.

"You just tell your students that the wizards at the Ministry have everything under control, and if they have any questions about the War, you should refer them to the Ministry's recently published official guide." He dug a thick pamphlet out of the pocket of his robe. "This contains everything they need to know. I'll be leaving several hundred copies of this little gem with your headmaster."

Dumbledore stepped forward. "Thank you, Cyrus, you've been very helpful. But I'm sure you must be tired after your long journey. It is really too kind of you to take the time to come all this way. What you need is a nice rest and a hot cup of tea-I always find ginger tea to be especially refreshing after a journey." He had guided him gently to the door during this speech. "Professor Vector, may I entrust our guest to you? The house elves have prepared accomodations for you. I hope you will be comfortable, but if you require anything, you've only to let us know."

"But-" Vector had a firm hand on his back and was practically shoving him out the door. "All right then. We'll talk later, Dumbledore," was his parting shot at the headmaster.

"Excellent. I look forward to it."

"And Professor Snape."

Snape cocked a lazy brow.

"When I leave in the morning, the Minister has requested that you return with me. For questioning."

"I shall iron my robes, then."

The rest of the faculty made for the door as fast as they could. Sirius, however, did not move from his chair but remained as still as he had while Dadger spoke. Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Excuse me. I know you all have papers to grade and classes to prepare for tomorrow, but if I might have a moment of your time? Remus, Severus, Sirius-I'd like to have a word."

Trelawney sighed and murmured something to Hooch about impending doom. Hooch rolled her eyes and grabbed Flitwick by the arm as they went down the stairs. The four wizards were quiet for a moment after the door clicked shut behind their colleagues. Dumbledore was the first to speak.

"Well, it seems your old friend Mr. Pettigrew is determined to cause as much trouble as he can. I'm afraid our new Minister is looking for a scapegoat. With all of Pettigrew's confessions, he clearly feels the need to take some sort of action."

Lupin snorted. "To cover himself in a glory he never earned during the War."

"I'm afraid so." Dumbledore nodded gravely.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Let's stop avoiding the issue, shall we?" Snape crossed his arms and scowled at Fawkes. "It is obvious the Ministry has set its sights on me. As a target, they could do worse. There is much about my past that Pettigrew can share with them. No doubt he has enough to keep the mills grinding for quite some time."

"Details of your time as a Death Eater are not what concern me, Severus."

"No." Snape looked grim. "I agree. Conspiracy murder will make much better headlines."

"Murder? What are you talking about?" Remus glanced from Snape to Dumbledore. Snape sighed.

"I imagine it will be common knowledge soon enough. I was the one who recruited Peter Pettigrew to the Dark Lord's service. He was an easy mark. He had shown some aptitude for potions in school and I thought he would make an able laboratory assistant. I did not know," he crossed his arms and glared at the fire, "I could not have known, that he was the Potters' secret keeper."

Remus went white. "You. . . oh, my God." He sat down heavily. "Severus, they're going to crucify you."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Lupin. The Minister is cleverer than I had thought him. He has known, as many have, that I was a Death Eater in the past, but that makes me no different from the many respectable wizards and witches who now work in the higher echelons of the Ministry. But being able to tie me to the Potters' murder. .. . it's a dream come true for the Minister. Now no one can accuse him of sitting on damaging information," he said bitterly. "He can haul a Hogwarts professor into the dock and look like a hero doing it."

Dumbledore said nothing. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Severus, I think perhaps you ought to take the well deserved vacation you have delayed for so long. Someplace remote. I'm sure we can think of something suitable. Just until this dies down."

"No, Albus." His expression was indignant. "I refuse to run like a terrified schoolboy. If the Minister wants me, let him come and get me."

Dumbledore's eyes were grave. "Make no mistake, Severus. That is what he intends to do."

"I know it." Their eyes met.

"Very well then. Hogwarts stands with you. If he wants to 'haul you into the dock,' he'll have to take the lot of us." He looked at Remus, who nodded, and at Sirius, who sat silent by the fire. "We will talk more in the morning. Get some rest, all of you, and try not to worry."

Sirius got up and went out the door without so much as a glance at Dumbledore. He was dimly aware of Remus and Snape on the stairs behind him, talking in an undertone, but he strode quickly down the stairs and into the professors' second floor bathroom. He did not stop until he fell to his knees in front of an ancient porcelain toilet and heaved the entire contents of his stomach into it. His retching shook him with its violence. It was some minutes before he could collect himself enough to slump back against the wall. When he opened his eyes Snape was sitting on the floor across from him, wearing the same intently watchful expression he had turned on him in the meeting with Dadger.

"What the hell do you want, Snape?" he croaked.

"Drink this." Snape handed him a tiny vial. Sirius regarded it skeptically. "It will control the nausea."

He knocked it back at a gulp. "You just carry this stuff around with you?"

"Among other things."

"That's. . ..disturbing. You're a walking hazard, you know that?"

"So I've been told. Feeling better?"

"Little bit." He ran a hand over his face. "I must have a touch of the 'flu. Pomfrey will put me right."

"The 'flu." Snape cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Yes. I was feeling ill all during that meeting. It just hit me all of a sudden. A couple of days of rest and I'll be fine."

"So it would have nothing to do, I suppose, with the fact that Under-Secretary Dadger's previous appointment was as Deputy Sub-Warden of Azkaban prison."

Sirius was silent.

"Old friend of yours?"

"Fuck off, Snape." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He fought the wave of nausea that the potion couldn't quite control. He heard Snape get up and walk to the door. When he did not hear the latch click, he cracked an eye. Snape was standing at the door, watching him, apparently lost in thought.

"Leave me alone, Snape."

When he was out the door Sirius slumped all the way to the floor and lay there with his eyes closed for a long time. After about half an hour he sat bolt upright. His eyes glittered strangely.

* * *

Few sounds are more unnerving to the human ear than the scream of a house elf. When the piercing, unearthly wail broke over the castle at dawn the next morning, Hufflepuffs shuddered under their covers, Ravenclaws held their ears, Slytherins dove under beds, and Gryffindors ran about their tower distraught. The screams did not stop, but swelled in earsplitting volume until even the merpeople swam to the surface to see what was the matter, and the giant squid cowered in its lair, terrified.

"He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-elp!!!!! Woe, Wo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-e!! He-e-e-e-e-elp, he-e-e-e-e-e-e-elp, ala-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-as!!!!!"

Teachers scurried to the source of the sound on the third floor, holding their ears against the unbearable cacophany. The sight that greeted them stopped each of them in their tracks. Dumbledore was the last to arrive. His face went white when he saw what lay on the bed in Hogwarts' guest quarters. "Fetch Madam Pomfrey," he whispered.

* * *

The murder of Cyrus Dadger within the confines of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry pushed all mention of Peter Pettigrew from the front pages of the Daily Prophet. "War Hero Murdered!" the headlines proclaimed. "Hogwarts Under Veil of Suspicion!" Long rambling eulogies celebrating Dadger's mediocre career were embellished in print daily, next to articles publishing incriminating details about Hogwarts faculty. "Werewolves, Death Eaters, and Convicts: Who's Teaching Your Children?" a particularly popular piece asked. Photographers were camped at the gates of the school daily, their flash bulbs popping whenever anyone ventured a toe outside. Hagrid took to hanging his laundry on the front gates as a screen, but gave it up when the next day's paper ran a front page picture of his oversized underwear above a caption that read "Abnormal Sex Trophies Displayed at School: Orgies Abound."

The reports became even more gleeful when the magical autopsy results came out. The expert mediwizards declared confidently that a rare and difficult to trace poison had been used to commit the crime. Such a substance, they speculated, would be found in only one place in the castle. Within hours Aurors were turning Snape's potions storeroom upside down while he sputtered and fumed and paced. They found the bottle they were searching for in a locked cabinet behind heavy jars swimming with octopus eyes.

"Ah ha!" exclaimed Ferny, a senior Auror who had been the one to spot the bottle first. "How do you explain this, Professor?"

Snape's eyes narrowed to contemptuous slits. "It is a deadly substance, you cretin. Of course I keep it under lock and key. I work with accident-prone children. Would you feel better if I kept it on my desk?"

Ferny harrumphed and shoved past him. Dumbledore laid a restraining hand on Snape's arm, shaking his head gently.

The Auror in charge stepped forward. "Professor Snape, I'm going to have to ask you to come with us."

"Whatever for?"

"For questioning," he said grimly. "And you might want to pack a change of clothes."

"Incriminating Evidence Found in Hogwarts Professor's Quarters!" the next day's papers trumpeted. "Deputy Headmaster Arrested for Murder!" A particularly unflattering picture of Snape accompanied the article. His nose looked as though it might have been magically enhanced to appear even larger than normal, and the sneer that played about his mouth made him look positively vicious. The picture turned and fixed the viewer in a gaze that could only be called beady, and the sneer deepened.

Sirius examined the paper while sitting in his armchair late that night. He read each article carefully, then read them again. He contemplated Snape's face on the front page for some time before he appeared to reach some sort of decision. He rose and tossed a handful of powder into the fireplace.

"Chief Prosecutor Quindle's office," he called loudly into the fireplace.

* * *

"Look alive there. You've got a visitor." The junior Magical Law Enforcement officer slid the metal door open and stepped aside for Albus Dumbledore. Snape did not look up from where he sat on the thin cot, his back against the wall.

"Thank you. If you wouldn't mind, could you leave us alone for a bit?" Dumbledore turned his kindliest twinkle on the man. The officer hesitated, but complied. Neither man spoke until the last scraping bolt shot home.

"I would ask how you are feeling, but something tells me I know the answer to that one," said Dumbledore as he sat down beside the younger man on the cot. "I've brought you some things." He lifted the small carpet bag he had been carrying up to the bed. "A change or two of clothes, some books, some chocolate from Lupin, a brandied fruitcake from Minerva. Save it for a day you feel like a visit to the hospital wing. Also the most recent potions journal, and your mail."

"The non-howler portion of it, you mean."

Dumbledore gave him a little smile. "We have a special bin just for those."

Snape ignored the rest of the bag's contents and picked through the books. Dumbledore had decided against the books in his office and selected instead only the books on the bottom shelf of his bedside table. Verse, nineteenth century fiction, the essays of Montaigne. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Severus. I have some news."

He looked up sharply. "None of it good, I'll warrant from your tone."

"No. I'm afraid not. Pettigrew is dead."

Snape thought a moment. "Well. I suppose the bright side is, I have an alibi for that one."

Dumbledore chuckled. "There is that."

"How?"

"Apparently, he got hold of a wand somehow. A careless Auror might have dropped it in his cell. At least, that is what the papers claim. The wand is, as you might imagine, untraceable."

"I wonder. And he hexed himself?"

"Evidently."

"That is extremely difficult to manage, under the best of circumstances. It seems unlikely at best."

"Yes, doesn't it though."

"You think his death was arranged?"

"The wand might have been spelled to hex the next one to touch it. Any number of possibilities leap to mind. At any rate, what is certain is that no one else is going to be embarrassed by Pettigrew's desire to make a clean breast of it."

"Well," Snape said slowly, "on the one hand, it might weaken their case against me. Without Pettigrew to testify-"

"Without Pettigrew, they can parade a string of Aurors with medals on their chests repeating what he said under questioning. Pettigrew's character was the weak spot in their case. Now, that's been done away with. They no longer need to drag him into court to establish motive."

"Ah," Snape said wearily. "Of course. Foolish of me." He looked at Dumbledore and frowned. "There's more you haven't said."

The old wizard nodded. "Yes. The rumour is, they have a chief witness now."

"A witness? What, some sniveling house elf?"

"I don't think so."

"And you're worried."

"I am concerned."

"Albus. Who is this witness?"

"I don't know. Harry is going to try and find out."

"But you suspect."

Dumbledore hesitated. "It does no good to speculate. We'll know soon enough. Which brings me to another subject."

"Albus, I already told you. My answer is no."

"I know, I know. But I want you to re-consider. If I could present your case-"

"If you defend me, they'll tar you with the same brush. Hogwarts will get dragged into the mud with me. It will give Quindle precisely what he wants. You know perfectly well that I am being used as nothing more than a prop to the Minister's vanity and a stick with which to beat Hogwarts. They want more than anything to shut Hogwarts down and establish a new school, closer to the south and more firmly under Ministry control. Don't you dare give them any excuse for it, Albus. I'll not have it."

"All right," Dumbledore said at last. "I will of course respect your wishes. Speaking of which, do you mind discussing administrative matters for a bit?"

Snape shifted. "Don't be ridiculous, Albus. Let's not pretend. I'm not coming back to Hogwarts and we both know it. You'll need a new Deputy Headmaster and a new Potions Master. I have suggestions for each, if you care to hear them."

After only a slight pause, Dumbledore nodded. "Of course."

"Try and get Granger as Potions Mistress. She's appallingly young, but she's the greatest natural talent to come through my classroom in twenty years. She can pick it up as she goes. She might even be moderately less obnoxious on the other side of the lectern."

His companion smiled. "An inspired thought, Severus. I will do my best."

"And for Deputy Headmaster, you'll want Black. God knows there is no more irritating individual on the face of the planet, but on his better days he's a stern dispenser of justice, an able administrator, and a born teacher. And completely devoted to you."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "That is a fair description of my current Deputy," he said at last.

Snape shook his head impatiently. "I was never any of those things, except for the last."

"Definitely, the last," Dumbledore said softly. "Always, the last." He looked at the hollows under the other man's eyes. "You've not slept for the past three days, have you?"

"Not much."

"Sleep now." Gently he drew the tangled black head onto his shoulder and stroked it. With a shuddering sigh, Snape relaxed and let his head fall against the surprisingly strong shoulder under the stiff robes. His eyes slid shut. After a few minutes he mumbled something.

"What was that, my boy?"

"I said, aren't you going to ask if I'm guilty?"

"Why would I do that?"

The Auror found them like that when he returned half an hour later, but he had not the courage to evict Albus Dumbledore, especially after the fierce glare the old wizard gave him. His eye still had the power to terrify, especially a junior Auror. Only when he was certain Snape was asleep did he ease the long form onto the narrow mattress and pull out a soft wool blanket from the carpetbag to cover him. He watched him sleep for another few minutes, then swept out of the cell without a word for the sheepish officer guarding the door.

* * *

"My lords," began the Chief Prosecutor in his most solemn tones, "we are gathered in your august presence today to bring some long overdue justice to its rightful home." He paused in his stately pacing of the courtroom to fix his eye on Snape, who sat at the defendant's table looking bored. "You will hear eveidence presented in this trial that will shock and grieve you. Some of you may be unwilling to believe that such a story could be true, that one man could continue to elude the long arm of justice for so many years. Let me assure you ahead of time, my lords, that justice may be delayed, but she is inexorable. She will not be put off forever. Today," he swiveled dramatically around, "is the day of reckoning."

Snape rolled his eyes. His barrister frowned and nudged him.

"You will hear the story of a murder, the murder in cold blood of a devoted and heroic servant of that same justice. The murder of an Auror, of one of those sworn to protect and defend us all against the forces of darkness and evil. Alas," he paused and lifted his quivering jowls, "himself he could not save. Cyrus Dadger was murdered in cold blood, I say, in one of the most hideous manners possible, on the night of the twenty-first of October. Who, you may ask, would do such a thing? What could be the motive for such a heinous act?"

He let his question hang as he re-commenced pacing. The room was utterly silent; he had the audience in the gallery eating out of his hand and he knew it. He prolonged the moment, clearly relishing it.

"In my long career as a public servant, I have come to know, my lords," he acknowledged the panel of judges at the high bench with a bow, "that people will do anything, commit any atrocity, in the name of self-preservation. Why did Severus Snape, respected Hogwarts professor and newly created Deputy Headmaster, resort to murder? Because Cyrus Dadger threatened to expose his secret. To strip him of all he had carefully built over the years, to rip away the shield that covered his shame. In the course of questioning the notorious criminal and mass murderer Peter Pettigrew, Mr. Dadger had come to learn some things about our esteemed Professor Snape," he allowed his sarcasm to drip through on the last words, "that Professor Snape would rather die than suffer to be revealed. Or, shall I say, he would rather. . . kill. Because that is the decision he reached, my lords, shortly after Mr. Dadger made his intentions plain. He knocked on the door of the unsuspecting Mr. Dadger's rooms and. . . what? What did he do?"

The audience in the gallery leaned forward in anticipation. "He made pleasant conversation. He was charming, ingratiating even. Perhaps he implied that the Ministry would have his full co-operation. Perhaps he even volunteered a confession. Whatever it was he said, it was enough for the trusting Mr. Dadger to let his guard down, however briefly. He took the fatal decision to offer him a cup of tea. A cup of tea." He let the words sink in.

"And what, you ask, was in this cup? A poison so deadly, so fast acting, that Cyrus Dadger was dead in a matter of minutes. Horribly dead. I apologise to those who do not wish to hear it, but justice will not stop her mouth. She cries out to be heard, she demands to be heard! Cyrus Dadger died a painful and horrendous death, choking on his own bile and clutching at his throat as his internal organs swelled and burst, his muscles tore apart, and his blood oozed out every pore." He paused to wipe a hand over his face. "Why? Why did this happen? What did Cyrus Dadger do to deserve the kind of death we do not inflict on our worst and most irrecoverable criminals? Why, my lords, the answer is simple. He threatened our esteemed Professor Snape." He spat the last words, directly in front of the table at which Snape sat, his gaze fixed on a spot above the judges' heads.

"He knew that twenty years ago, Severus Snape was not a respected Hogwarts professor-" he was careful to give the words their emphasis-"but a Death Eater, a servant of the Dark Lord himself, a vassal doing his every bidding. It was this very man, this Severus Snape, who first recruited the infamous Peter Pettigrew to the Dark Lord's service. He was his instructor if you will, in infamy, his tutor in terror. This, this is what Cyrus Dadger knew, and what Severus Snape would kill to conceal."

Quindle took a moment to compose himself and began again in a calmer voice. "You will hear evidence presented in this courtroom that Professor Snape had both motive and means to dispose of his victim. But along with these things he had something else. He had the firm belief that he would go unpunished for this crime, as for the others, of which you will hear soon. He believed himself invulnerable. My lords, we are here today to challenge that belief. Let us-" he let his gaze wander from the judges to the audience and back again-"let us all prove him wrong."

He sat down heavily behind the prosecutor's table and steepled his hands as though taken up in thought. Snape glared over at him. After a minute or so of paper shuffling, his barrister rose. He was young and awkward, and his speech was not nearly so impassioned as the Chief Prosecutor's. The audience began to get fidgety, but he made his points clearly and quickly.

The prosecution was bulding their case, he said, on a house of cards-namely, the notion that killing Dadger would somehow preserve Snape from prosecution. Surely the interrogation and questioning of Peter Pettigrew was a matter of public record. How would killing one Auror end the threat of prosecution, if that was his goal? He mentioned Professor Snape's distinguished record of service in the War, for which he had at last earned the Order of Merlin, first class. He mentioned the long list of character witnesses who would step forward to testify on his behalf, gesturing to the rows behind him packed with Hogwarts professors.

His speech was missing two things, however, which did not escape the notice of the judges or the audience: an alibi for Snape the night of the twenty-first; and an alternative scenario for the crime. He sat down and shuffled his notes some more when he was finished. Snape was resting with his head on his hand, looking bored in the extreme. The young barrister gave him a sharp nudge under the table with his foot, which only had the result of making Snape look murderous.

Finally the Chief Judge indicated the Prosecutor should begin. He stepped up to call his first witness, clearing his throat dramatically.

"The prosecution calls Professor Sirius Black." A deadly hush fell on the room as Sirius strode from the back of the room to take his seat on the stand. Dumbledore griped his staff tightly. Black kept his eyes down and did not meet the gaze of the astonished audience.

"Professor Black." The Chief Prosecutor began in a genial voice. "Please tell us the circumstances of your presence here today."

Sirius took a moment to answer. "I suppose you mean," he began slowly, "why it is that I am appearing here as the first witness for the prosecution against my colleague and Deputy Headmaster, a man I have known for the greater part of thirty years."

"Yes, Professor Black, that is exactly what I mean."

"I am here," he said, meeting the judges' eyes, "because my duty to the truth, and to the safety of my students, exceeds that of my loyalty to my colleague. I am here because I volunteered to be so."

"Thank you, Professor. Now if you don't mind, tell us a little of what you witnessed earlier on the night of October the twenty-first."

Sirius looked at the defence table for the first time. He met Snape's gaze and did not flinch. "I heard what everyone else heard. Cyrus Dadger came to speak to us about Peter Pettigrew. He made it pretty clear that Pettigrew's information was going to lead to some prosecutions. And he implied that Professor Snape was going to be among those prosecuted-perhaps the chief among them."

"I see. And did you have any idea what he was talking about?"

Sirius shook his head. "Not at the time, no. I did know that Professor Snape had been a Death Eater in the past, but I also knew how bravely he had fought in the War afterward. Mr. Dadger avoided mentioning detail."

"Very well. What happened then?"

"When Mr. Dadger had left, the headmaster asked me to stay, along with Professors Lupin and Snape."

Quindle looked curious. "Why do you suppose that is, Professor?"

He shrugged. "I thought nothing of it, really. Professor Lupin and I had been close to Pettigrew when we were in school together, before we knew what he really was, and we were very interested in his apprehension."

Quindle leaned on the rail and looked quizzical. "And why is that?"

"Because Peter Pettigrew killed my best friend James Potter and his wife Lily, and attempted to kill their infant son Harry, my godson. He then framed me for their murder, and I was convicted in his place."

"And served twelve years for a crime you did not commit," the prosecutor concluded softly.

"That's right."

"Yes, I can see how you especially would be interested in his apprehension, as you put it. And Professor Lupin as well," he said with a nod to the rows behind the defence table, where Remus sat frowning. "So the headmaster asked to see the three of you after Mr. Dadger had left. What was said at this little meeting?"

Sirius paused and took a drink from the water perched on the rail. "Professor Snape said that he knew what it was that Dadger had on him. He said Pettigrew must have told them that he had been the one to recruit him for Voldemort's service."

"For what purpose?"

"He knew that Pettigrew had been made the Potters' secret keeper. Voldemort wanted the Potters, to break the little resistance group at Godric's Hollow. Snape delivered them by bringing him Pettigrew."

A low murmur broke out in the courtroom. One of the judges banged his gavel.

"So Professor Snape knew that Pettigrew was the Potters' secret keeper when he recruited him? You're saying this was the point behind seducing Pettigrew to the Dark Lord's service?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I'm saying. That's what he said in Dumbledore's office that night."

The murmurs broke out again, louder than before. The gavels banged. Quindle shook his head as though incredulous. "Are you telling me Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, beloved and respected leader against the Dark Lord, knew all this about Severus Snape?"

"Oh yes. The conversation that night was about how to keep it quiet." Sirius kept his eyes on Quindle, and did not look at the piercing gaze Dumbledore directed at him. Snape's head was bowed.

"I see. Can you tell us what happened after the meeting of this little. . . conspiracy, for lack of a better term?"

"Afterward, I went to the faculty bathrooom on the second floor, and Professor Snape followed me. We continued our conversation. He said. . ." Sirius hesitated.

"Go on, Professor. I would remind you of the oath you took when you came forward to my office."

"Yes." He licked his lips. "He was very agitated. He said that he was not going to allow Cyrus Dadger to ruin his life, and that he would have to take care of him. I asked him what on earth he meant, and he said. . . he said he knew of ways."

"He knew of ways."

"Yes. He said he knew a great many things about potions that you don't learn at school. "

"What do you imagine he meant by that?"

"I believe he was referring to his time as a Death Eater, when he was brewing potions-well, poisons mainly-for Voldemort."

Quindle paced away from the witness stand, apparently thinking. "Professor Black. In your opinion, is Severus Snape a man capable of murder?"

Sirius looked at his hands a long time before answering. "In my opinion, Severus Snape has committed more than one murder. And yes, I would have to say, from my acquaintance with him, that he is capable of committing many more."

The gavels banged repeatedly. The audience in the gallery took several minutes to subside. The Hogwarts contingent sat stunned and silent. Snape did not raise his head. Quindle could not manage to contain a satisfied smile as he returned to his table.

"I have no further questions for this witness."

Snape's barrister leaned in to confer with him in fevered whispers. Snape did not reply, but waved him off. Finally he gave up and rose, clutching his papers in his sweaty palms.

"My lords. I-ah-I request a recess until such time as I can prepare my cross-examination of this witness."

The chief judge scowled at him and sighed. "Very well, Mr. Dimwiddie. As the hour is late, this court is adjourned until ten o'clock tomorrow morning, at which point Professor Black will resume his testimony." With a bang of the gavel, the three judges rose as one and marched out the side door. The audience began to mill about and gossip, stretching their legs and gathering their things. There was no movement among those from Hogwarts. Harry, Ron and Hermione were sitting next to Lupin, whose face was absolutely white. Beside him Professor Vector leaned in to whisper to Hooch and Sprout. "I knew they hated each other," she hissed. "But I never thought Black would be capable of this." Minerva McGonagall and Hagrid sat rigid on either side of Dumbledore, who was leaning his head on the top of his staff, looking every inch of his years.

Two MLE officers came to escort Snape back to his holding cell. He did not look up to right or left, but followed them out, his face set and still. Sirius Black slowly descended the stand and swept down the main aisle, ignoring the stares of the throng.

* * *

"I don't believe it," Harry said for the thousandth time that night over a pint at the Leaky Cauldron. They were ensconced at a small table near the corner where they were unlikely to draw attention."Why would he do such a thing?"

"Well, you know, Harry," Ron leaned forward. "None of us was there that night. If that's what happened-if Snape said those things, why wouldn't he come forward?"

Hermione shook her head. "It doesn't make any sense. Snape wouldn't say those things. I mean, do you honestly think, either of you, that if it were true about Snape helping to kill Harry's parents, Dumbledore would have protected him all these years?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know, 'Mione. Maybe he figures Snape's repented, or something. I mean, he did know he was a Death Eater."

"Yeah, it's not like he did their laundry. He made the poisons they used. It was nasty stuff he was doing. And Dumbledore's been all right with that, so maybe there's even more we didn't know."

She shook her head more emphatically. "No, Ron. It just doesn't sound like Snape. I mean, he follows Sirius into the men's room and declares his intention to commit a murder? Why was he following him there in the first place?"

Harry cocked an eyebrow. Hermione shot him a look and kicked him under the table.

"So let me get this straight, Hermione," he said. "You think Sirius is lying."

"Through his teeth."

"You're nutters," Ron declared. "We've known since we were first years that Snape's a murderous bastard. Are you really defending him over Sirius?"

"Murderous bastard?" She sputtered. "The man who's saved your sorry lives more times than I can count? How can you, Ron? He may not be our favourite person, but he's not a murderer. Of Cyrus Dadger or Harry's parents."

Harry set his empty pint aside. "Maybe. But you know, it seems to me that if anyone knows the whole truth about what Snape is like, it's bound to be Sirius. You know what I mean, 'Mione. And if he said what he said, there's got to be something there."

The three sat in silence for a while, until Ron waved his hand for refills and the talk turned uneasily to other matters.

* * *

The chief judge's gavel banged at precisely ten o'clock the next morning to a courtroom even more packed than yesterday's. News of Sirius Black's sensationally damning testimony had spread, and no wizard or witch in London was going to miss the show. Snape had looked grim when they brought him in. He had glanced round the crowded courtroom and leaned back to murmur to Dumbledore.

"All that appears to be missing is a guillotine and Madame Dufarge knitting in the corner." Minerva overheard them and furtively toed her knitting bag farther under the bench.

"Hear ye! Hear ye! This court is now in session."

Dimwiddie was ready this time. He leaped to his feet and strode to the high bench, where he began conferring heatedly with the judges. One of them shook his head. Dimwiddie's hand gestures became more impassioned. Quindle leaned forward from his table to try to overhear. At last two of the judges nodded. The third sighed and threw up his hands. The chief judge, a tiny witch not more than four feet high, ascended the box beside her seat to address the court.

"Mr. Dimwiddie has requested, and with reservation" (she acknowledged her colleague) "been granted the right to demand the administration of Veritaserum to the prosecution's chief witness."

The courtroom erupted. Gavels banged repeatedly. "Silence in the court! Professor Black, ascend the stand."

Slowly Sirius came from the back of the room to take his seat as before. He was frowning. He looked at Quindle as though he expected him to do something, but the chief prosecutor sat scowling at the judges. A bailiff placed a tiny crystalline vial on the rail in front of him.

"I'm supposed to drink this?"

The judge leaned down. "Yes, Professor Black. The defence has the right, in certain circumstances, to cross-examine under Veritaserum."

Sirius stared at the little bottle. "And if I refuse?"

"Then your testimony will be considered as stricken from the record."

He chewed his lip. "Fine." He tossed it back in a neat gulp. "Now what?"

Dimwiddie stepped forward. "Now, Professor, we get at the truth of what you were telling us yesterday."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Just get on with it, you sorry little ponce." Giggles erupted from the crowd. Witnesses under Veritaserum were the highlight of any trial. The chief judge shot a stern look.

"Now, Professor."

"You said that already."

More giggles, quieter this time.

Dimwiddie resumed. "Let me begin with the same questions my esteemed colleague did yesterday. What are the circumstances for your presence here among us today?"

"I'm here today because you want a chance to try and get your greasy toad of a client off the hook."

"Yes," he interrupted hastily, "but why did you agree to testify in the first place?"

Sirius hesitated a moment and began the characteristic shallow breathing of someone resisting Veritaserum.

"I would remind you, sir, of what you doubtless know, that if you attempt to resist the Veritaserum you will only endanger yourself. Veritaserum cannnot be resisted."

With a rush the air left Sirius's lungs. "I'm here because the Chief Prosecutor came to me and asked if I would be willing to testify against Snape."

"But yesterday I thought you said you came forward voluntarily."

"No," he ground out through clenched teeth. "My testimony was sought. He offered me-he offered me money."

Dimwiddie froze. The courtroom was silent. "What did you say, sir?"

"I said," he growled, "the chief prosecutor asked if I would be willing to testify against Snape for five hundred galleons, unmarked. I've recently bought a house," he explained, "and there are expenses."

The prosecutor leaped to his feet. "My lords! I beg you! The Veritaserum isn't working! He's lying!" Three gavels banged at once as the courtroom broke out in excited chatter. Sirius Black took a long drink of water and collapsed back in his chair. At the defence table Snape raised his head for the first time and frowned. When the judges had restrained the chief prosecutor and restored order, Dimwiddie proceeded.

"Now. Let me be sure I understand this. You're saying your testimony was suborned-bought, basically."

"Apparently, that's what I'm saying," he said with a sigh. He crossed his arms. "Oh, and immunity from prosecution for any self-incriminating testimony. Full immunity." He reached for the water again but thought better of it. There was a slight tremor in his right hand, and he quickly crossed his arms again. Snape caught the motion, and his frown deepened.

Dimwiddie paced. "Professor Black, do you hate Professor Snape?"

"Yes," came the guttural response. "I hate the bastard." He shot a look of pure hatred at the defence table. Snape met it with a quirked eyebrow. "Dumbledore's an old fool who thinks Snape can do no wrong. He had no business making him Deputy Headmaster," he declared more loudly, "none at all."

"Professor Black, where were you the night of October the twenty-first, between eight and ten o'clock?"

His jaw trembled. "I was in the potions classroom with Professor Snape. Fourth year Ravenclaws had a mid-term project coming due the next day combining Transfiguration and Potions, and we were starting to look over their first drafts and discussing how to grade them."

Dimwiddie looked up, startled. "Professor Black, are you telling me that during the hours when the expert mediwizards determined the murder to have been committed, Professor Snape was actually with you? And you were looking over papers together?" Sirius looked as though he wanted to chew the barrister's throat out. He narrowed his eyes. "That's what I'm saying," he hissed. Dimwiddie took a moment to let this sink in.

"Professor Black," he began again, "did you have the conversation you reported having with Professor Snape in the men's room? In which Professor Snape announced his intention to 'take care of' Cyrus Dadger?"

Black's jaw trembled, but the words escaped him. A thin trickle of sweat inched down the side of his face. "No. We did talk about Dadger and what he had threatened. I asked him if he was concerned, and he said he had nothing to hide and nothing to be afraid of. That he trusted the truth would come out."

"And what truth would that be?"

"That he had had nothing to do with the Potters' murder. That he was at best a low level functionary in Voldemort's service. He said-he said he never had any idea what Voldemort wanted Pettigrew for."

"I see." Dimwiddie could only barely suppress his triumphant smile. "Tell me, Professor, the conversation that night in Headmaster Dumbledore's office-did any of that actually happen?"

Sirius swallowed several times and looked at the ceiling. "No," he said softly. "That never happened either. I made it up for the prosecutor. We talked about it and rehearsed it, and decided that would sound best. The meeting was really about the latest Slytherin prank against the Gryffindors." He crossed his arms more firmly. More sweat was streaking down his face, and he had begun to tremble all over. Snape did not take his eyes off him. "And Dumbledore did nothing, the daft old coot! Snape's Slytherins are always getting away with it! I'm sick of having to put up with it! With him!"

"And when the chief prosecutor came to you, you saw a way to not have to put up with him ever again."

"You're goddamn right I did!" Furious whispers and murmurs broke out and rose to a dull roar. Black's whole body was shaking now. Snape tore a small piece of parchment from the stack on his table and hastily scrawled a note, which he passed back to Dumbledore. He flipped it open. "Get him off the stand now," it read. Dumbledore stood, but the judge was too quick for him.

"Order! Order! Order! I will have order in this court!" She jumped up and down on her box, banging her gavel madly. "I have heard enough! This case is dismissed! I'll not hear another word of it in this courtroom! Professor Snape, you are released with the apologies of this court. Professor Black, you are under instruction not to leave the confines of this building. And Mr. Chief Prosecutor," she growled threateningly, pointing her gavel at him, "I will see you in my chambers."

Everyone stood at once, except for the ashen-faced chief prosecutor, who slumped further in his chair. The Hogwarts contingent was cheering wildly and embracing each other with abandon. Minerva McGonagall wiped away a tear with Hagrid's gigantic pocket handkerchief, and Rolanda Hooch blew her nose on the fringe of Sybil Trelawney's silk shawl. Harry, Ron and Hermione stood dumbfounded. Vector, Sinistra and Flitwick surrounded Snape, clutching at him, but he shoved them away, fighting his way through the press of bodies in the courtroom to the witness stand. Sirius was making his careful way down the steps, staggering as he went. No one could be heard above the din in the courtrom, and it seemed everyone was running somewhere and shouting something. The chief judge continued to bang her gavel furiously, but no one could hear her. Flashbulbs popped right and left, blinding the bailiffs as they attempted to make their way to Sirius. Snape gave a reporter a gigantic shove and grabbed Sirius by the shoulders, pressing him against the railing. Sirius was reeling a little but managed to focus on Snape's angry face.

"You bloody great idiot," Snape shouted, over the hiss and crackle of more flashbulbs. "How long ago?"

"Two hours. I wanted to be sure-" he collapsed back against the railing, trembling uncontrollably.

Snape swore. Dumbledore's face appeared behind Snape's shoulder."All right, my boy. What do we do?"

"Order! Order!" The tiny judge was continuning to shriek. A flashbulb went off in her face and she staggered backwards.

"I've no idea," Snape said, trying to be heard. "The only thing we can try is to get him back to Hogwarts as soon as we can. I might be able to do something there. But he hasn't much time, Albus. He'll never make it if we can't apparate."

Dumbledore frowned, thinking. Harry and Hermione were elbowing their way through the hysterical crowd, towards the witness stand. "What's the matter with him?" Harry asked in a panicked voice.

"Be quiet, Potter! Albus, we've only one shot at it. If anyone can break through those wards and apparate us directly to Hogwarts, it's you."

Sirius began to slide down, his eyes rolling back in his head. Snape quickly grabbed him and held him up. "Albus, please. Please." He looked at the old wizard and threw every argument he could think of into his eyes. At last Dumbledore nodded.

"Hang on tight," he said grimly.

* * *

They landed with a sickening lurch on the floor of Snape's office: Snape propping Black up on one side with Lupin on the other; Dumbledore, his cloak thrown back and staff upraised, trembling; Harry and Hermione falling on top of each other. Snape scrambled to his feet and began tossing bottles around, rooting frantically through cabinets while Lupin and Dumbledore began half dragging, half carrying Sirius through the back door to the bedroom.

"Fucking hell!" Snape exclaimed, hurling an empty bottle across the room. Harry jumped, more at hearing the words from Snape's mouth than the flying bottle. Hermione bent to pick it up where it had rolled. She sniffed it. Her mouth formed a little O of surprise, and she caught her breath.

"He can't have. . .." she whispered.

Snape was running his hands though his hair. "Ten points to Gryffindor. Goddamn it!" He began rummaging in the cabinets below, pulling out random jars and bags of ingredients and tossing them on the counter. Harry looked at Hermione in bewilderment.

"Perfidiosa," she whispered. "It's the only known antidote to Veritaserum. Not many people know about it, though. The Death Eaters created it some years ago-" she stopped as a thought struck her, and she glanced at Snape.

"Yes, Miss Granger, that was my invention, as you so rightly guess."

"There's an anitidote to Veritaserum?" Harry asked incredulously. "Why doesn't everyone know about it?"

"Because, Mr. Potter, the potion as it exists is a failure. I was never able to get it beyond the prototypical stages. It acts erratically and unpredictably, and breaks down in storage. And it has another unpleasant side effect. Care to elaborate, Miss Granger?"

She gripped the little bottle tightly. "Well, it's. . . it's. . . "

"Invariably fatal, is what she is trying to say." Snape found what he was looking for and began hurriedly lighting the fire under a cauldron, tossing ingredients in at a fevered pace.

"You mean he's going to die?" Harry's throat constricted on the words. He felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. "He'll die?"

"Yes, he will, unless I can discover the antidote to the antidote in the next forty-five minutes. So shut up and let me work."

Harry slumped to the floor. He felt Hermione's arms around him. "So you're telling me he lied? Everything he said today, it was all a lie?"

"Of course he lied, Potter, you imbecile. What did you think?" Snape yanked his sleeves up and plunged his arm elbow deep into a vat of adder tongues.

"He got on the stand and lied," Harry repeated slowly. "He took the antidote to Veritaserum knowing what it would do to him. So he could get up there and lie. All to save your pathetic arse."

"I couldn't have put it better myself," Snape replied. "Miss Granger, care to lend a hand?"

She hopped up. "What do I do?"

He peered into the cauldron. "I think I'd better start with some of the-"

"Yes, right here." She handed him a small bag from the second shelf. "What about the-"

"Over there, third from the right. And the-"

"Got it."

Harry watched them work in synchronised silence for a few minutes before he got up and stumbled back to Snape's bedroom. At any other time he would have registered the oddity of being in Snape's personal quarters, but all he had eyes for was the iron bedstead and the long gaunt figure on it. Sirius was lying pale and still on the spartan bed. Remus sat beside him, rubbing his cold hands. Dumbledore sat next to his head, one hand placed on the top of his head, his eyes tightly shut. Harry watched him for a minute. "What's he doing?" he whispered to Remus.

"Keeping him alive," Lupin replied without taking his eyes off Sirius. Of the three men in the room, Harry thought Remus looked more like the nearly dead than Sirius. He pulled up a chair and sat to wait, listening to the clatter and bustle in the other room.

"Snape says he's going to die," he said softly after a while.

"Snape would know."

Harry looked at him sharply, but Remus offered nothing more. He watched the shallow rise and fall of Sirius's chest, and the increasing bluish pallor of his skin. He wondered what good it was doing to chafe his hands like that, but thought perhaps it was more to comfort Remus than anything. If he could have, he would have crawled up beside Sirius and held him, crying and begging him not to leave. Instead, he sat quietly and waited.

After about twenty minutes had elapsed with no change in either room, Harry spoke again.

"Remus."

"Mm."

"How much of what Sirius said on the stand was the truth, and how much was a lie?"

Lupin shrugged. "Hard to say. My feeling is, he lied pretty good both days."

"So. . ." Harry struggled to piece it together. "He orchestrated this whole thing. He offered himself as a witness to Quindle, he came up with the most incriminating fabrications he could think of, and he came up with a story that made himself look like a perjuring, vindictive criminal. He knew. . . he knew all along Snape's barrister would demand Veritaserum if he made his lies as outrageous as possible. It was exactly what he had been waiting for." Harry shook his head, incredulous. "He knew no one would believe him if he said Snape was innocent."

"But everybody believes in Veritaserum." Remus's eyes looked hollow.

Harry did not ask the question he really wanted to, which was why, in God's name why would Sirius do such a thing. He didn't think Remus would know the answer to that any more than he did. He thought about the scene in the courtroom that was only an hour ago but felt like years. Of a sudden he remembered Ron, and how he had shoved his friend away to get to Sirius. Hermione must have followed him. Thoughts of Ron involved too much guilt for him to look at them directly, so he tried to focus on something else, but every memory seemed to end in Sirius's face. When another twenty minutes had gone by, Snape appeared in the doorway, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hair a sodden mess. Hermione, looking not much better, stood at his elbow. In his hand was a large glass beaker of some steaming liquid. Harry looked for reassurance in his eyes and saw only emptiness.

"There is a remote chance this might work. Lupin, hold his head back."

Hermione handed Snape the thin bit of tubing she had been holding. He gently inserted it down the unconscious man's throat, a look of intense concentration on his face. Slowly he began to pour the liquid down the small funnel. Harry watched it swirl down the tube and disappear into Sirius's mouth. When he was done, he extracted the tube inch by careful inch. The five of them stood motionless and watched. Dumbledore cautiously removed his hand. There was no change for good or ill in Sirius's respiration or colour.

"Now what do we do?" Harry whispered.

"Now we wait," Snape said grimly. "If this potion works, he's going to have a rough time of it. There is a chance it will act as a purgative on the poison, and he will have to suffer through its effects. I can't administer a pain relieving potion because of the risk of interaction; I know too little about what I've just poured down his throat."

"You said there's a chance that will happen. What else could it do?"

"Kill him." Snape handed the empty beaker to Hermione and pulled up a chair to wait.

* * *

**Chapter Four: The Island-Valley of Avilion **

"Lupin." Remus opened his eyes to see Snape standing at his shoulder, shaking him awake. "Go lie down on the sofa in the sitting room. I'll wake you if there's any change."

He nodded and eased his stiff body out of the little chair he had been wedged in for the last twelve hours. Gently he disengaged the hand he had been holding, even in his sleep, and stumbled out of the room. Snape laid a hand on Dumbledore, still at Sirius's head, but saw the clear blue eyes on him as he bent down.

"Go get some rest, Albus. There's nothing any of us can do right now."

The old wizard nodded and pushed himself off the bed, rubbing his back. "I'll be napping in my office, then. The sofa there manages to be just uncomfortable enough to keep me from oversleeping. Send for me in an hour and I'll relieve you." He stopped at the door to the sitting room. "Good night, my boy," he said softly.

Snape nodded and glanced down at Harry and Hermione. Harry was asleep sitting bolt upright on the floor, his head lolling against the bed. Hermione was curled on the floor like a cat, her head in Harry's lap. He considered tossing a blanket over her, but decided it might rouse her. He settled in the spot Dumbledore had vacated and resumed his vigil.

Sirius was blue and still, his breathing shallow. At most, the antidote had succeeded in holding the poison at bay. Sometime within the next few hours, the inexorable action of the Perfidiosa would finish its terrible work. He could only hope that Sirius would not regain consciousness in that time. The pain, in all probability, would be unimaginable.

He listened to the clock on the mantel tick the hours away. Tentatively, he reached for the hand Lupin had let fall where it rested on the coverlet. There was still some residual warmth from the other man's hand, and it was not quite so fearsomely cold to the touch as the rest of him. He lifted it and placed it in his own.

It had been over ten months since he had last touched any part of Black's body. He tried not to calculate the number of days. He had tried not to calculate any number of things since last December.

"Black, you idiot," he murmured. "You bloody tremendous idiot."

He must have drifted off as he sat there, because the next thing he knew the hand in his was twitching. He startled awake and saw two large grey eyes staring up at him.

"Black. Can you hear me?"

"'Course I can hear you. You're yelling in my ear. Do you think I'm-" Of a sudden his body went rigid and arched up off the bed. His grip on Snape's hand tightened, and he gave a weak cry as the spasm wracked him.

"Black. Listen to me. I've given you a potion that is purging the poison from your system. The pain means that it's working. It will come and go in waves. Just hang on and it will-" He broke off as Sirius's cry rose. He had to wrap his arms around his chest to keep him on the bed. As suddenly as it had begun, the spasm was over, and he sank back, panting.

"What the hell-Snape, you bastard, what have you done? I'm supposed to be dead. What the hell did you do?"

"Sorry to spoil your plans for the rest of your day. The Perfidiosa is my creation, and I need to do some work on it. You don't mind if I experiment on you, do you?"

Sirius jerked weakly against the restraining arms. His voice was thin and raw, barely a whisper. "Let me die."

"No."

"What the hell do you care?"

"What the hell do you care what I care?"

This got a weak laugh from Sirius. "I said I-ah, God." The spasm took him again like a red-hot claw in his vitals. It squeezed the air from his lungs; he tried to scream but no sound came out. He thrashed against the pain, but the arms holding him would not let him go.

"Black. Listen to my voice. Focus only on my voice. Hang on to me and listen to my voice and it will pull you out. You've only to hang on another minute-"

"I can't, oh God Severus I can't please I can't I can't Severus help me-"

"Yes, you can. You can do this, Black. You want to live, you want to live for Harry, he still needs you, he needs you to hang on just another minute-"

With a final cry, the spasm left him. Snape reached for the glass of water on the table and guided it to his lips.

"Drink this."

He gulped it down and let his head fall back. Snape checked his pulse rate. Fast, now. Too fast. If he were to convulse like this for the rest of the night, he would be dead by morning. He ran through the options in his head. Sedation, anaesthetic, sleep inducer-they all carried the risk of fatal interaction. He would have to wait and judge when the time came.

Black proved stronger than he had thought. After an hour or so, he no longer cried out, or perhaps he had lost the strength to. He simply stiffened in Snape's arms, and Snape spoke soothingly in his ear, guiding him through each convulsion until he felt the muscles begin to relax and he knew the savage pain was releasing its hold for the next spell of blessed relief. During these respites they spoke as little as possible, but Sirius did not release him.

And when the pain submerged them, he would cast his voice like a lifeline for the suffering man to cling to, murmuring about Harry and his cottage and his classes and Remus and every single reason to live he could think of. He spoke with all the urgency he could muster of what nonsense he knew not, of the sweetness of a moonlit ride on a fast broomstick, of the sizzle of magic out the end of a wand, of the simple pleasures of tea in front of the fire and foxgloves nodding in the summer breeze.

For hours they continued, Snape wiping him down with a cool cloth in between bouts. About one o'clock or thereabouts, he glanced up and Hermione was standing by the side of the bed watching. She said nothing, but disappeared and came back with a pitcher of cool water and several cloths. Wordlessly, she worked to assist in whatever way she could, silently agreeing to Snape's unspoken request not to rouse the others. Through the long hours of that night they worked, and towards morning she began wiping down Snape and handing him water after he had wiped down and watered Sirius, who never relaxed his grip on the arms that held him up.

Finally, towards four in the morning, the time between spasms began to lengthen. First ten minutes between, then fifteen, then twenty, then at last once every half hour, until the blessed moment when Snape felt the wracked body relax and the breathing slow and deepen, and he knew sleep-genuine, healthful sleep-had claimed him at last. His eyes met Hermione's and she gave a little smile. She ran a last cool cloth over his brow and pulled a fresh coverlet over them both, stripping off the sweat-soaked one twisted around them. Thank you, he tried to say, but his eyes slid shut before he got the words out.

She watched them for a moment, too tired to feel anything at the certain knowledge that Sirius would live now. She gently shook Harry awake. His eyes flew open.

"Wha-"

"Shh. It's all right now. He's going to be fine."

She helped him to his feet and he took in the sight of Sirius peacefully asleep. His colour was starting to return, and he was curled on his side. Snape was sprawled next to him, one arm thrown across him.

"He had a rough night of it," she whispered, "but he's going to make it now. Snape pulled him through. They'll both sleep for some time, I'd imagine. Go back to Remus's rooms and get some rest, why don't you."

Mutely, he nodded, and stumbled out the door, wincing and rubbing his neck where it had been twisted against the side of the bed. When he was gone she prepared a fresh pitcher and brought some clean cloths from the bathroom in case they were needed, clearing away the jumble on the night stand. When she turned, Remus was standing in the doorway.

"Time you took your own advice, I think. Come on, let's get you to bed."

She started to open her mouth to protest when a wave of dizziness hit her. "No, I'm fine," she said weakly.

"Yes, I can see that. Come on." He guided her out the door, through the tiny sitting room where he had been sleeping, and out Snape's office door to the hallway. As temporary Potions Mistress, she had been installed for the last three weeks in a cramped set of rooms on the other side of the dungeons. Remus got her through the narrow door and onto her bed, pulling off her shoes and socks and slipping her under the blankets. She watched him sleepily.

"Neither of them knows, do they?" she murmured.

He looked up sharply. "Knows what?"

"That you were the one who killed Dadger."

He sat down slowly on the bed beside her. He said nothing but watched her face for a minute. "No," he answered at last. "I don't think either of them has any idea. Frankly, I think Sirius believes Severus did kill him, and probably Severus believes the same of him."

"Hmm."

"So. Are you going to tell the M.L.E.?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

He waited. "Don't you want to know why?"

"Only if you want to tell me."

He hesitated. "Some of the story's not mine to tell."

"He hurt Sirius, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"And he wanted to hurt Snape."

"Yes."

She propped herself on her hand and looked at him. The faint light of dawn streaking her dusty slit of a window caught the amber highlights of his eyes as they watched her.

"You were protecting your pack."

Slowly he nodded. "I suppose there are worse ways of looking at it." He turned his head away. "And I very nearly killed them both," he said softly.

There didn't seem to be anything to say to that. She stretched. "I sent Harry to your rooms. I thought you might stay asleep."

"That's all right," he sighed. "I didn't actually sleep much last night. I listened. You seemed to be doing all that could be done. For both of them."

"Mm."

"Mind if I stretch out here?"

"Be my guest."

They were silent for a while, and she thought he must have fallen asleep when he spoke. "Sirius beat me to it, you know."

"What's that?"

"I was planning on confessing on the stand. If I had confessed beforehand, they would have found another pretext to drag Snape to trial anyway. I was slated to be the defence's first witness. How was I to know I should have tried for the prosecution's list?"

She chuckled. "Better luck next time."

"I'll keep it in mind." He rolled over and faced her. "How did you know?"

"I don't know. I just did. No wait, I remember. It was something Harry said. About the only one knowing the whole truth about Snape being Sirius, and it occurred to me that if anyone knew the whole truth about Sirius, it was you, and I guess I sort of figured you as the type to-to know things about people."

"I like to watch," he said softly. "And no, I don't know the whole truth about Sirius. Once, maybe. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever." His eyes came back to her. "Seems you're always the one figuring things out about me."

She smiled as she remembered the frightened but determined third year she had been. He's a werewolf! The startled gasps, the exclamations, the sad look in Lupin's eyes.

"Being nosy pays off, I guess."

"Being the smartest one in the room, you mean."

"Not when you're in it."

He did not reply but leaned forward slightly. She matched his movement. Their faces were inches apart, his eyes watching her lips. Abruptly he pulled away and rolled over.

"Good night, Hermione."

She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her heart pounding. "Remus Lupin," she whispered. "Goddamn you, don't do that."

"We can't," came the quiet answer.

"Why not?"

"Because," he sighed, "we both want someone else."

"And we can't have them." He wasn't the only one capable of brutal frankness. "Tell me you don't want me."

He turned and met her eyes. "You know I want to fuck you into the mattress."

"Then do it."

There was nothing gentle in his movement as he grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her against him for a wet burning kiss that ignited something low in her belly. She gasped and arched into him. His mouth was hard and unloverlike, and his stubble rasped her. He ground against her and she matched his ferocity.

"Get this off you," he growled, tearing at her bedraggled clothes. His shirt was off in seconds and her stomach tightened at the beauty of his lean brown chest. The next instant he was pressed on top of her, his mouth on her again, his too-strong arms pinning her down. His mouth moved down, down, his tongue trailing fire. She tried to pull him up but he was relentless.

"Please. I want to taste you." He spread her legs and dipped his tongue inside her folds. She gave a little cry, and he looked up. "Has anyone ever tongued you, Hermione?"

"Not-no man."

He gave a little smile at that. "Relax. I'm not bad at it. For a man." He lowered his head again and began a slow sweeping motion with the flat of his tongue along the inside of her labia. She tried to relax. He was right, he wasn't bad. Not great, but-oh, fucking God. She arched up off the bed as he began little expert flicks of her clitoris, teasing her to painful erectness. She teetered on the edge of her orgasm, panting and fisting the sheets. He pulled back.

"How many times can you come, Hermione?"

"What? Oh-three, four maybe. I don't know."

"Hm. Let's take advantage of that then, shall we." He lowered his head and resumed, this time with a swirling motion just below her clitoris. She threw her legs further apart and pushed up into his face. He slipped his hands underneath her and cupped her arse, pulling her up and closer to him.

"Fuck-oh God, Remus, please-"

He flicked her rigidly erect clit at lightning speed. Her orgasm was sharp and painful in its intensity and she bucked forward. His mouth clamped tighter and sucked her juices from her. As she was coming down, he moved his mouth down to tease her entrance. He moved his tongue slowly in and out of her, fucking her. Still hungry, she arched up further. He replaced his mouth with a finger that slid in and out with maddening slowness, never breaching more than the entrance, pressing on the pubic bone just enough to drive her mad.

"Jesus-please, more-"

Quickly he rammed two fingers all the way in her and clamped his mouth on her clitoris again, licking fiercely. With a wild cry she pushed into him, her second orgasm shaking her. She could feel the honey gush from the top of her passage this time and he lapped it up, rubbing his hard length on her leg. He rode it out with her, and when he released her this time, little tremors ran along her muscles. His face was slick with her juices, his breath coming hard, his arousal close to beyond control.

"God, you taste so good."

She pulled him to her and felt a renewed jolt of desire at the scent of her on his face, the overpowering taste of her on his tongue as he kissed her, moving his tongue in and out of her lips as he had her entrance.

"I want in you now."

"But I want to taste you too."

He groaned. "Please. In you. I need-"

She gathered her strength and flipped him off her, straddling him. In one smooth motion she lowered herself onto him, gasping a little at the deepness of the penetration from this angle and his unaccustomed size. He gripped her hips and thrust upward with a moan.

"Sweet Merlin. . . so tight. . . " He moved in rapid, jerky motions, his need overtaking him. She tightened her inner muscles on his upthrust and his eyes flew open.

"Bitch," he muttered, grabbing her and flipping her back over, never leaving her body.

"Bastard," she hissed in his ear. She snaked her legs around his waist as he adjusted his angle. He watched her face.

"There?"

"Oh-God, yes."

"Can you come?"

"Yes. Yes, oh-"

"Jesus, Hermione, I can't-ah. . " His voice broke as his control did and he pounded into her with unleashed ferocity, his lips curled back in a snarl of pleasure. He was going to tear her apart, there was no way she could take it, it was so fucking good, too good. . . Her third orgasm tore out of her body with a scream, or maybe it was his, as he groaned and gave a last thrust, spilling inside her in a flood, pumping reflexively, her spasming muscles pulling the last drops from him as they came down together, clutching at each other. They were asleep before he had even pulled out, their limbs a sweat-soaked tangle.

* * *

Three doors down and some hours later, Sirius blinked and licked his cracked lips. They were so dry and swollen he could barely part them. He shifted and in an instant there was a glass at his lips, tilting expertly into his mouth.

"Do you want a cloth to suck on?"

He turned his head and met Snape's eyes hovering over him, looking like hollowed pits in purple craters.

"God. You look like hell."

"So do you, you ingrate. Finish drinking this."

Obediently, he drank. It was remarkable how good he felt, actually. Drained, but lucid. The night was a horrifying long tunnel of pain that he didn't want to remember. Now, he felt only a kind of torpor that was not, in itself, unpleasant. There was something he wanted to ask Snape, but he couldn't think of what it was right now.

He lifted his head fractionally. "Where is everyone?"

"I sent Albus to his office last night. Granger must have sent young Potter packing, and I imagine Lupin as well."

"Oh." He dropped his head back, obscurely relieved. "Thank you for last night. I know it must not have been. . . easy."

Snape sat up and gave him an inscrutable look. "Feeling better?"

"Much."

"Good. Now I can kill you, you idiotic, cretinous, foolish, unthinking bastard."

"Is that Italian for thank you?"

"Shut up, you moron. What the hell did you think you were doing, taking that stuff? It is only by the barest chance and my extraordinary skill that you are alive at all. What possessed you to pull such a ridiculous stunt?"

"I didn't notice your plan working so well. Alternating sullen taciturnity with menacing glares at the judges? As a defence strategy, it could use some work. You'd have spent last night in Azkaban if I hadn't pulled that ridiculous stunt, as you call it. And every night thereafter, for the rest of your wretched life."

Sirius collapsed back, exhausted from the strain of sparring. He put his arm over his eyes. "How can you think," he said wearily, "how can you think for a minute, for one goddamned minute, that I would let you spend a single night in Azkaban if there was something I could do about it? What the hell do I care about Dadger? He was filth, and you gave him what he deserved."

"I-what? I assure you I did no such thing."

Sirius opened his eyes. "What are you talking about? Of course you did."

"No, I didn't. You did."

Sirius sat up. "Wait a minute. You think I. . ."

Their eyes met and realisation dawned.

"Let me see if I understand this," Snape said slowly. "Neither of us killed Dadger?"

"Apparently. . . apparently so." Sirius frowned.

"Well," Snape said. "This is interesting." He reflected. "I always knew house elves were dangerous creatures. I suppose I should take care to be more polite to them in future."

They lay in silence for a moment more before Snape spoke again. When he did his voice was very quiet. "I know I've said it before, but I don't understand you at all, Black."

"Yes, you do. And you would have done it too."

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose I would have, given the opportunity. But I still don't understand it."

Sirius turned over to face him. "Don't you at all?"

Snape shook his head slowly. "Not in the least."

"Then let me make it perfectly clear." His eyes were as level as his voice. "I hate you, Severus Snape. I hate everything about you. I hate the way you look, the way you talk, the way you fasten your bloody cravats. You walk into a room and I am choked with hatred. I can barely stand to be in your presence, I hate you so much. I have never felt this much hatred for another person in my entire life. Some days it's all I can think about. It invades my thoughts when I wake and my dreams when I sleep. I sit down to meals and get up in the mornings with it. Sometimes I think I've lived with hating you my whole life. Sometimes I think it is my whole life. If my life were to be narrowed to one sentence, I would want that sentence to be: I hate Severus Snape."

Snape said nothing for a long time. Sirius began to fear he had been misunderstood, when finally he spoke. "I hate you too, Black," he said softly. "I think I always have. From the moment I saw you. I expect now that I always will. Utterly and completely."

He inched a hand forward on the mattress, and Sirius met it with his. Their fingers laced, and they watched their hands for a moment.

"Then we understand each other," said Sirius.

"Yes, I think so." He brought their intertwined hands to his chest, where he held them. "Your clarification helps enormously."

Sirius inched closer until they were forehead to forehead. He closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath.

"Pain?"

"No. Well, yes-still in my left arm, but it's not so bad. But that's not why-I just. . ."

"I know." Snape edged even closer until their bodies were pressed together. For a long while they lay like this, until the rise and fall of their breathing synchronised. Sirius was the first to move. He nudged his hips against Snape's, and moved his hands lower to pull them closer. He heard Snape's sharp intake of breath as their cocks brushed.

"Are you. . . .can you. . ."

"Jesus, Severus, if you don't fuck me now I think I might explode."

A tilt of his chin upward and their mouths met. A hesitant kiss deepened, and Snape moaned into it. Sirius broke away.

"You have no idea what that sound does to me."

"Some." Snape pulled him closer and resumed the kiss, harder now. Their tongues slid and tangled as their groins rocked together. "Tell me what you want."

"Like before."

Snape frowned. "Sirius. I hardly think you are in any condition for that right now." He hesitated. "May I touch you?"

"God, yes."

Trembling fingers tore at shirts as their kisses became wetter, hungrier, sloppier. When they were cock to cock Severus gasped and arched.

"Ahh. . . damn it. Too good. Please. . .I can't-"

Sirius sensed his desperation and curled his hand around the other man's pulsing cock. He had begun to leak already, and his shaft was slippery. Slowly he moved his hand up and down.

"Sirius-please, I can't-too long-"

He began to move his hand faster. Snape cried out and fought to keep his eyes open. He brought his hand to Sirius's cock and their hands caught a rhythm and held it. With desperation they pumped, legs entwined, breath fast. Snape got there first, and Sirius saw him stiffen, his mouth gasping for air, felt the warm wet flood on his hand, and that was all it took for him to shoot his seed into Snape's hand, their bodies jerking together, hands slowing in unison. They struggled for air.

Snape leaned for one of the cloths on the night stand. "I apologise," he said hoarsely, as he cleaned them. "I did not mean to be-so precipitate."

"You've got to be joking. That was wonderful. Though I do feel sixteen again."

Snape chuckled and fell back, resting his head on Sirius's shoulder. "I doubt Miss Granger knew how helpful she was being, putting those cloths there."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that." He pulled him closer, stroking his back. "God, you. . ."

They lay swooned together, watching the sun climb the window. Sleep claimed them again, and for quite some time. When Sirius opened his eyes again the sun was in the bottom of the window, and a hand was brushing the patch of hair above his cock ever so lightly. The hand moved lower, soft and tentative. His cock twitched and jumped as a finger flicked its tip.

"Mm. Awake now, are we? Feeling up to anything more. . . active?" The questing finger moved even lower. For answer, Sirius opened his legs to allow better access. The finger disappeared and came back warm and slick with oil.

"How do you do that," he murmured.

"Magic."

The finger began to circle his entrance, slowly and gently. Snape met his eyes and watched them.

"Severus. I said before it's all right."

"I want you to be sure."

He pushed against the teasing finger. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure. Just-please."

The finger pushed inside. He gave a small moan at the wriggling motion of Snape's finger, and then all thought was drowned in pleasure.

"Please," he managed.

Snape did not need another invitation, but pulled up and entered him in a long smooth stroke. He pushed all the way in and held there, trembling, his eyes locked on Sirius's. Slowly they began to move. Their pace was deliberate, their breathing quiet. Sirius brought his legs up further and hooked them around Snape, who slipped in deeper, tearing a moan from both of them. Snape kept himself under iron control, knowing he could under no circumstances let himself go without permission, and even then carefully, watchfully.

"Severus. I'm not going to break."

Snape quickened his pace, and Sirius pushed against him, seeking to impale himself further. As before, Sirius's orgasm caught him by surprise, without a hand on him. He threw his head back with a cry as he pulsed, relishing the feel of Snape's pleasure overtaking him as he drove in at a brutal pace now, gasping and heaving as the contracting ring of muscle pulled him under.

"Sirius-oh, God, Sirius-"

They lay joined and trembling afterwards, resting their heads together in silence.

* * *

House elves can move with extraordinary quiet when they wish to, which is nearly always. It is a well-known fact that house elves can appear in rooms without the apparent use of the door. House elf magic is powerful stuff, and wizards are right to be wary of it, which explains why it is that Snape gave a visible jump when he glimpsed a pair of large green ears peeking over the edge of the coverlet.

"What is it?" he said harshly. He scowled over the side of the bed when there was no answer. Nothing annoyed him more than a lurking house elf. His heart lurched into his throat at the sight that greeted him. The elf (whose name he struggled to remember; Tiddly or Wanky or some such thing) stood staring up at him, his (her?) enormous eyes streaming tears in a steady fountain, rocking back and forth and clutching its thin arms as it sobbed uncontrollably.

"No," Snape croaked, his voice tight with panic. He leaped from the bed and grabbed his clothes, barely stopping to throw them on.

"Severus?" From the bed, Sirius raised a sleepy head. Snape took no time to answer, but raced out the door behind the elf.

He flew down corridors and stairways, his chest pounding, oblivious to the curious stares of students as he ran flat out for the fourth floor. He had no idea where the elf was, but he knew where he was going with a terrible, nameless certainty. "Orange marmalade!" he barked at the gargoyle, and stumbled and gasped up the spiral stairs, bursting the heavy oaken doors practically off their brass hinges.

Behind him, Padfoot took the last set of stairs at a bound. Accustomed by now to their Transfiguration professor's alternate appearance, students flattened against the wall as the huge dog flew by. His sure feet did not hesitate on the narrow spiral stairs, even when he heard the man's broken wail. He leaped through the open doors and froze. The odour of death assaulted his nostrils.

Kneeling by the side of the sofa was Snape, his head resting on Dumbledore's chest. He did not look up as the dog trotted over. His eyes were staring and hollowed, his arms tightly wound about the still form on the sofa. Fawkes was perched on the sofa back, his crystalline tears dropping on the unmoving figure, whose face was a mask of peacefulness.

"God, no," he said because he could think of nothing else to say. Behind him he heard the house elf begin a low moaning sound. Then he threw back his head and let loose the terrible death cry of the house elf. At first Sirius thought he was hearing an echo; then he realised the wail had been taken up by every elf in the castle. Their cry contained no words; it was the very sound of pain, of all sorrow and loneliness that has ever been known or guessed. In the distant recesses of the castle, house elves dropped the laundry, let fall their pans of soapy water, and stilled their mops to take up the rending, shivering wail. The stones of the castle reverberated with it, and the humans within the castle sank to their knees in unnameable dread.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. Snape did not move. Feet ran, shouts were heard on the stairs below, and still he did not move. In fact, it was hours before he did. When Sirius finally did pry him off the stiff cold body he was numb and unresisting, and something in his eyes had gone as dead as the body beneath him.

* * *

The death of Albus Dumbledore did what nothing else could have done: it pushed all mention of the trial of Severus Snape and its sensational ending off the front page of the Daily Prophet. The pages that before had been only too happy to print items about the headmaster ranging from the critical to the scurrilous were now chock-a-block with tearful encomiums and laudatory articles. The news of Chief Prosecutor Quindle's resignation in a cloud of opprobrium was pushed to page twenty-seven, and Sirius Black's immunity from perjury charges merited barely a mention.

Acting Headmaster Snape tossed the latest edition on the desk with a snort of disgust. Vultures, he thought. He stared at the letter open on the desk, with the heavy seal of the Board of Governors appended to it, issuing the formal request that he take up the duties of permanent Headmaster. We the Governors of this school have full confidence. .. . .He flicked it aside. A forgotten line of poetry wandered through his head. First made and latest left of all the knights.

He rose and glanced at his reflection in the full-length mirror on his way out the door. He looked resplendent in his robes, no question. Richly brocaded, voluminous velvets hung from his lean frame, the robes suitably dark today but nonetheless splendid. For the honour of Hogwarts. For the honour of Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard in nine hundred years, whom they buried today. None of them need know that the robes draped a hollow shell. He clutched the small leather bound book in his hand and swept out the door.

"Severus." The headmaster turned and waited for Minerva McGonagall, who had of course turned out with all her family for today. He could not get used to the sight of Minerva McGonagall, terror of generations of Hogwarts students, dandling her grandchildren on her knee in the Great Hall. She looked splendid now, in her shimmering greens and her plumed hat. In her hand she carried a tartan sash.

"Minerva."

"Walk with me to the cemetery?"

Snape inclined his head and adjusted his pace to hers.

"I've been meaning to tell you. The speech you gave at the public service the other day - it was wonderful. We were all so moved. I think you really helped so many to put it all in perspective."

He quirked an eyebrow.

"Severus. I know how angry you are with me. Please try to understand," she sighed.

"I am not angry with you. I simply fail to undertand why you are determined to make me do your job for you. We both know perfectly well who it is who should be wearing these robes and officiating today, and who should be sitting in that office."

She stopped. "Yes, I do know perfectly well. But apparently you do not. I want to enjoy the rest of my life in peace, Severus, surely you can understand that. And that is the last I have to say on the subject. Oh, stop your sulking. Come here. Your hood is crooked." She fussed with him and brushed invisible lint off him. She paused with her hands on his arms, surveying him. "He would be proud of you today."

He flinched. "Don't."

She nodded. "We'd better get going."

They continued in silence to the burial ground on the hill behind the castle. It was a lonely little place with four or five bedraggled headstones of gamekeepers and forgotten deputy headmasters, but Dumbledore had made it clear this was where he wanted his final resting place to be. It has a lovely view, he had written, and sometimes there are centaurs. Resting on a simple bier in the center was the body, wrapped in a silken winding sheet. No coffin, wizard fashion. Let the earth claim its own.

The little group was already assembled, waiting for the headmaster. He had timed his slightly late arrival so he would not have to stand there and stare at that body. It was a small, private crowd-only Hogwarts faculty and one or two select friends. Young Potter, looking uncomfortable in his new Auror robes. The Weasleys, every last flaming head of them. The Granger girl, standing by Lupin and Vector, her borrowed robes swallowing her slight frame. Black, standing off by himself. The public service had been full of the dignitaries, the Ministry officials, the press of students and well-wishers and the merely curious. By wizarding tradition, the burial was for family. For those who grieved. This was for them. He quickly took his place at the head of the decorous circle.

And now they were all looking at him expectantly. It was a look he did not think he would ever get used to seeing on the faces of others when they looked at him. What comfort could he offer these bereft few in a world gone grey? He cleared his throat and opened the small volume he had been clutching tightly. He looked out at their faces one more time. Doubtless they were waiting for him to speak as he had the other day on the larger meaning and example of Dumbledore's life, of purpose and rectitude and duty. Of courage in the face of despair, of steadfastness in the face of the unknown. But to these few he would not lie. He turned the page and began to read in the soft hypnotic voice that had stilled classrooms for almost twenty years.

"Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:  
'Ah! My Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?  
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?  
For now I see the true old times are dead,  
When every morning brought a noble chance,  
And every chance brought out a noble knight.  
Such times have been not since the light that led  
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.'"

He paused and swallowed down the voice of memory that threatened to engulf him. _You'll sit here, my boy, Minerva and I will be here, the others over there. The Order is called to order. What, we meet here? Yes, where better? Like Arthur and his round table, you are, Albus. I know, I know. Have some tea._

"'But now the whole Round Table is dissolved  
Which was an image of the mighty world,  
And I, the last, go forth companionless,  
And the days darken round me, and the years,  
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'

_Take my wand. Take it! No, my boy, I don't want your wand. There is much good you can still do with it. No, I do not deserve another chance, I know it! That is why you are given one. Hush crying now._

"And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:  
'The old order changeth, yielding place to new,  
And God fulfills himself in many ways,  
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.  
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?  
I have lived my life, and that which I have done  
May he within himself make pure! but thou,  
If thou shouldst never see my face again,  
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer  
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice  
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

_What have the two of you done now? It was his fault! No, his! Boys. You will be the death of me yet. Two detentions apiece. Served together. Try not to kill each other, hm?_

"For so the whole round earth is every way  
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.  
But now farewell. I am going a long way  
With these thou seest-if indeed I go,  
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,  
Nor ever wind blows loudly."

He slowed on the long rich syllables as the chill November wind buffeted him.

"But it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns  
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea;"

He glanced up and strove to master his voice.

"Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.'"

He closed the little book and looked up at the shattered, tear-streaked faces around him. Minerva, predictably, was the first to collect herself and step forward to the bier. Around the clean white winding sheet and over Dumbledore's chest, she tied the tartan sash she had been clutching. She paused, then unfastened the gold knotted brooch on her own shoulder and carefully pinned it over the folds of the sash. Her head high and her eyes dry, she stepped back to her place with a glance at Snape. Strengthened by that, he stepped to the bier. He bent and placed a kiss on the cold forehead. He stroked the glorious white mane of hair once, then rested his hand on the top of the head. He spoke his final words in a quiet voice that carried to the corners of the graveyard.

"My King, King everywhere; and so the dead have kings, there also will I worship thee as King."

With that, he tucked the book back under his arm and strode purposefully out of the graveyard; not to the castle, but to the hills beyond. From behind him he could hear the shuffling and the lowering of the body beginning, the part he knew beyond doubt he could not bear.

* * *

He walked in the hills for several hours, and when he returned his robes were a damp and dingy mess, and he was chilled to the bone. He shoved back the massive door to the office and pulled a flask of whiskey from the bottom shelf of a bookcase, gulping it down.

"Not companionless."

He whipped around to see Black sitting in the armchair behind him.

"Merlin's beard, Black, you startled me. I don't suppose it occurred to you this office has wards for a reason?"

"I don't suppose it occurred to you to change them?"

Snape scowled and sat behind the enormous desk.

"It is your office now. You'll have to change those wards sometime."

"I'm getting to it. Was there something you wanted?"

"Just what I said. You're not companionless. Though you've made it pretty clear in the last week or so that you don't much want a companion right now. I do understand you need some time, Severus, and I understand. . ." He sighed and broke off. "Look. All I want to say is this. Arthur may be dead, but he doesn't require you to plunge yourself into the lake along with Excalibur."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. And the other thing is this. I've been thinking about your offer, and I'm going to turn you down."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "You're going to what?"

"I don't want to be Deputy Headmaster. I appreciate the offer, but I think it would cause more problems than it would solve. Besides," he shrugged, "I don't want the responsibility. Or the remotest possibility that I might ever have to sit where you're sitting."

"How noble of you. I don't suppose you've stopped to consider anything but your own wishes in the matter."

"I have, actually. There's someone else who would be a much more inspired choice, and you know exactly who I mean."

"Good God, Black, you can't mean that chit of a girl. She's still finding her way around the potions classroom. She's been teaching for four weeks, she's a bare year older than her students, and she's annoying on top of it all."

"She's a born teacher and you know it, she's been forty-five for the last six years, and you wouldn't want a deputy who didn't annoy you. She'll stand up to you when she needs to, all right. Also, there is this." He paused and studied his hands. "Friedrich Rickenbocker of Durmstrang sent me a letter yesterday. We got on well when he was here for the public service last week."

Snape made an impatient gesture. "Yes, I know him well. Irritating little man. Have you a point?"

Sirius looked at him. "Yes, actually. He's offered me a job teaching there. They've not had an Animagus at Durmstrang for over a century, and he wants one. Thinks it would make him look good to the school's governors. Anyway, he's made the offer."

Snape corked the flask. "Well, I can't pay you more than you're already making, if that's what you're asking. I don't know what Rickenbocker can offer, but no doubt his pockets are substantially deeper."

"That's not what I'm asking and you know it."

"Frankly, Black, I've no idea what you're asking. It would be a bloody inconvenience to me to find a new Transfiguration Master on top of everything else, and in the middle of the school year at that. Not that it's been much of a year. But if you're determined to do it, I suppose I can't stop you."

Sirius was quiet for a moment. "You could, of course. I've no desire to leave Hogwarts, and you certainly know I don't give a damn about the money. But if you want me to," he said with a level gaze at Snape, "I'll do it. God knows I could not bear to stay here, were that the case."

Snape said nothing. He drummed his fingers on the desk that he would never think of as his. At last he got up and went to the window, looking out on the sunset over the lake and the hills beyond, where he had lost himself today.

"You've no idea why he died, do you?" he asked softly.

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Could it be because he was over one hundred and thirty years old?"

"Imbecile," Snape said, too tired to put much feeling into it. "He could have lived to three hundred if he'd wanted. Very probably more. No one knows, no one has yet guessed, the full extent of his power. He never troubled to reveal it. But I knew." He clasped his hands behind his back. "He died because I asked him to."

Sirius frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Snape turned. "Have you really not guessed? That day in the courtroom, after everything, I knew your only chance was to get here as quickly as possible. I knew it might just be possible to save you, if I could find the right antidote."

"Yes," Sirius said slowly.

Snape sighed in frustration. "Don't you see? We had to apparate here. It was the only way. Nothing else would have got us here in time. I asked him to do it. I said if anyone can break through those wards, it's you. Please, I said. I begged him. And he agreed." He shook his head. "I should have known. I think a part of me did."

"Know what?"

Snape sat down heavily. "Must this be the one time you choose to be slow on the uptake, Black? The headmaster is the ward. Hogwarts isn't a Gringotts vault. It has no elaborate system of wards and curses that prevent apparating. Its only shield is its headmaster, and he is bound to guard it with his life. He is the only one who could conceivably apparate in or out, but to do it even once he must turn his whole strength against himself."

Sirius ran a hand over his face. "My God."

"Indeed. You ought to read the fine print on my letter of appointment." He steepled his fingers and studied them. "I should have known. I should have guessed. The hell of it is, even if I had known, I still would have asked. And he knew it, and he did it. He died because I asked him to."

Sirius stood. "He died because of me, is what you mean."

"No, Black. He died because of us."

"I see." He searched for Snape's eyes but met only blankness. He walked to the door. "I'll write Friedrich at once, then." He clicked the door quietly shut behind him.

* * *

 

**Chapter Five: Centaurs And Compasses **

Sirius put his feet up on his desk and sighed, flipping through the morning's owl deliveries. An invitation to speak to the Anthroposophic Theomagical Society. A request for an interview from a local wizarding paper. Advertisements, some trade journals, a letter from Remus. His hand stopped shuffling on the last. He tapped it and laid it aside. He would read it over tea this afternoon. Or whiskey. Whichever. Nothing else of interest. The advertisements, though, continued to amuse him. The German wizarding commmunity was, if anything, more fanciful and eccentric than the English, and their post advertisements for the latest broomstick or spellbook or wand polisher were always colourful to the point of gaudiness. He squinted at the leaflet advertising the new Zeilig 5000 broomstick. A buxom, half-clad witch, her hair streaming behind her in a strong wind, winked at him and began to unbutton her shirt suggestively as she gyrated her hips on the broom. He gave a wry smile, and she blew him a kiss.

He started to toss it in the rubbish bin, then thought better of it and propped it against a jar of rotting daffodils on his desk. The witch continued her little show as he sorted the rest of the mail. He glanced up occasionally. Quite a broomstick, that. A postcard from Harry was stuck at the bottom of the stack. His year of training was almost over; his final trials were at the end of this month, and if all went well he would be invested as a full Auror in July. He wanted Sirius to come to the investiture. His tone was a little stiff and formal, as it had been for the last six months, ever since Sirius had told him that he would be leaving England after Christmas to teach at Durmstrang. He had been puzzled and hurt, and Sirius had not found anything to say that could explain it to him.

He picked up the quill from its inkpot and wrote a hasty reply.

_Dear Harry,_

Of course I shall be there in July. I wouldn't be anywhere else. I can't wait to see you in all your glory. Give my best to Ron and Hermione.

Sirius

He read it over. It sounded inadequate, but it would have to do. Harry would of course want to know how long he would be in England, and if he was going to spend the summer at the cottage, and would he stay with him at his flat off Diagon Alley, and all sorts of questions he would rather not answer. He rubbed his left arm absently. The tremors and ache never went away entirely. He glanced again at Remus's letter, considering. No, this afternoon would be better. He reached for the stack of papers to his left and redipped his quill, settling in with a sigh.

* * *

"Ja, bitte."

He did not look up from the dwindling stack of papers when the knock sounded. He slashed through a paragraph with a frown as the door creaked open. They might have raw magical talent to spare, but a little basic grammar instruction wouldn't come amiss. It's not even my language, he thought, and I can manage better than this.

"Ja? Was ist?" He looked up in irritation and his face stilled. He turned back to his paper and finished marking it with a few vigorous strokes, rolling it back up and tossing it on the completed stack when he was done. Only then did he turn his attention to his visitor.

"Headmaster Snape. To what do we at Durmstrang owe the pleasure?"

"I had a meeting in Dresden, and an afternoon to waste. Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Of course. I wouldn't wish to be wanting in courtesy to such a distinguished guest. Please, take a seat. Take mine. It's much more comfortable. Anything I can get you? Tea? Crumpets? Strudel?"

Snape stepped through the door and looked around in evident distaste. "Well. As cheery and comfortable as Durmstrang usually is. For what he's paying you, Rickenbocker might have given you a bigger office."

"I requested this one. It's closer to my classroom and easier to heat then the cavern they stuck me in originally. So. I'm assuming we've exhausted the small talk now. Was there something you wanted?"

Snape sat down in the rickety chair and arranged his black velevet robes about him. The high ermine collar made him look vaguely Elizabethan, and even more severe than usual.

"How are your classes?" Snape asked at last, when it became clear Sirius was not going to say anything else.

"Clever kids. Very hard workers. Very used to being ordered about. It has its advantages."

"I would imagine so." He eyed the advertisement propped on the desk. Sirius flipped it over in irritation. They sat in silence for another minute. Sirius reached for the next scroll on the stack and began scribbling in its margin. Snape watched him for a bit before he spoke.

"There are centaurs on Albus's grave."

Sirius looked up at that.

"I have seen them. Never more than one or two at a time, and always when the moon is at its darkest. They just. . . stand there."

He could think of no reply, so he stared at the paper on his lap.

Snape cleared his throat. "If you are interested to know, Drood is a disaster at Transfiguration. He might be able to change himself into a stoat at a moment's notice, but he couldn't transfigure his own dinner into shit. Hermione is on me to do something about it."

Sirius gave a snort. "I could have told you Drood was an idiot. Did Hermione send you to try to persuade me to return?"

Snape said nothing.

"That is why you're here, isn't it? You've got three weeks left in the term and it has occurred to you you don't have a Transfiguration Master who can administer a decent final exam."

"I-"

"Save it, Severus. Save it for someone who gives a goddamn about your problems." He tossed the scroll aside awkwardly; it slid to the floor, but he didn't pick it up. He stood and headed to the door. "Now if you don't mind I've got work to do, so gather your kitty fur robes and sweep on out of here."

Snape stood when he did. He made a motion for Sirius's arm as he passed.

"Black-"

Sirius knocked it away. "Don't you fucking dare," he hissed. They stood eye to eye. Suddenly comprehension dawned on Sirius.

"So that's it, is it? Time for your thrice annual installment of sex? Is the headmaster's bed a little lonely these days?"

Snape frowned. "No, that isn't what-"

But Sirius's anger had ignited. "Sure, Severus, if that's what you want, I can do that for you. I'll give you what you came for." He closed the distance between them and pulled Snape's hips against his. "Been a while for you, has it? Been thinking about this?" He ground their cocks together, then shoved the other man against the cabinet behind him. "It is, isn't it? I suppose I should be flattered that I merited a trip to the Continent. Though I suppose that's less a compliment to my skill than it might be-probably can't get anyone else to do it for you." He yanked Snape's trousers down and knelt before him, closing his mouth on him in one swift motion.

"Black-no, that isn't-you don't-ah, God. . ." Snape's eyes slid shut as he fought the pleasure of that incredible mouth on him. Sirius sucked him relentlessly, forcing him to a hardness he did not want. He tried to stop his trembling, tried to stop the orgasm he knew was going to swallow him. Suddenly Sirius stood and twisted him round with a rough hand, pushing him forward. He felt the oiled cock press against him and tried to make himself relax, but could not restrain his cry as he was entered in a brutal shove.

"Oh, God. . .so tight, so sweet. . ." Sirius was lost, moaning above him, pounding him without mercy, and Snape hated himself that it made his cock ache and drip, hated himself that he wanted it, hated himself that he relished the tearing pain of it. He cried out again as Sirius grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back.

"Is this what you want?" he hissed in his ear. "This is how you like it, isn't it, you fucking bastard. Go on, come for me. Show me how much you like it." Sirius shifted his angle slightly up and bumped Snape's prostate so hard his knees buckled. "Come for me, you bastard." He fisted Snape's cock with a rough jerk, thrusting in at a blinding pace now, and he heard Snape moaning no, no, as he came over Sirius's hand in a flood, and then his own orgasm seized him and he knew nothing but a fierce tide of pleasure, pumping until he had spilled every last drop into the slick, tightening hole that felt like it was pulling him in, in until he was drowning, and he opened his mouth to drink in the water so he could die but gulped only air.

He pulled out abruptly, shaking. There was a rivulet of blood trickling down Snape's thigh. He stared transfixed at the sight for a moment, then pulled up his trousers and tucked his shirt back in. He went to the little table in the corner of the room and picked up a tea towel folded underneath. Without looking at Snape, he tossed it to him.

"Here. Clean yourself up and get out of here." He sank into his chair and faced the window. He heard Snape dressing in silence, fumbling with buckles and clasps, and the sound made him want to weep. He closed his eyes. When he heard no further sound he opened his eyes to see Snape watching him, leaning against the bookcase by the desk, not a button out of place. Bastard, he thought.

"Black." Snape's voice was faint and not itself. "The centaurs. . ." he began. "Odd creatures, centaurs. They trouble themselves with humans so little. It is only the stars they pay any attention to at all." He followed Sirius's gaze out the window. The afternooon was bleak and drear, the grey light thin on the vineyarded hills above the river. Quidditch practice had begun, and a group of students flew in tight formation down the opposite hillside. Snape frowned. "Odd manoeuvre, that. Is that what von Dischlitz teaches them?"

Sirius nodded. "That's how they do everything." They watched the little group land, and a tall mustachioed man on the ground began to wave his arms at them and hop around. His face was very red. Faint shouts of "Schnell! Schnell!" drifted up from below.

"Charming."

"You were saying."

"Yes. The centaurs. Extraordinary thing. They pay their respects out of gratitude, you know. When the centaurs were being driven out of every other forest in the world, Albus opened up the Hogwarts grounds to them. That's when the Forbidden Forest became forbidden, you know. To protect the refuge of the centaurs."

Sirius made an impatient gesture. "I know my Hogwarts history, Snape."

"Yes. Of course. At any rate." He hesitated. "It has made me think, I suppose. Their gratitude. He gave such gifts to all of us, and we never reckoned them. To me he gave. . .everything. A second chance. A life. A way out of every hell I ever managed to plunge myself in." He folded his arms and studied the floor, his voice quiet. "And the last and greatest thing he gave me-I threw it away with both hands, and I haven't the faintest idea how to get it back again."

Sirius watched the grim little group of students mount their brooms once and fly off to the west this time, reversing their order of formation.

"Good-bye then, Snape," he said softly.

"Good-bye then, Black." He was careful not to let the massive door swing shut behind him too heavily on its hinges.

* * *

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked in delight and raced down the rest of the grand hallway in the Ministry building, elbowing her way through the clusters of people. She hurled herself into the arms of the tall young Auror, who blushed delightedly. "You look wonderful! I can't wait for the ceremony! Goodness, but you look distinguished." She ran a critical eye over his new robes. "Almost grown up, I'd say."

"Nonsense, 'Mione. I'm sure he's just as juvenile as ever, aren't you, mate." Ron pushed his way through right behind her and clapped his arm around his friend's shoulder. He was half a head taller than Harry, who still retained his light seeker's build. "So, any idea where you'll be off to after tomorrow?"

Harry shook his head. "Not really. Alastor's making noises about wanting to keep me here, though." He made a face. "All this training, just to stay right here in London. I think I'll go mad."

"Oh, quit your moaning. You've not really ever done this town properly, I'll wager. You need a Ministry swell like me to really show you how it's done."

"Thanks, Ron.Why do I have a notion 'doing the town' with you would entail my being jobless the next morning?"

Ron grinned and shrugged. "Enough about you, you conceited thing. I want Hermione to tell us all about Hogwarts. What's it really like to be a teacher, 'Mione? Do you get to hand out loads of detentions?"

She laughed. "Not as many as I'd like, sometimes," she said ruefully.

"I bet you're a holy terror, all right. You were scary enough when we were in school. And can you believe it Harry, our Hermione-the youngest deputy head in three hundred years." He grinned. "Come on, 'Mione, tell us what it's really like to work with Snape. That's the part I can't get over." He rolled his eyes. "I mean, here's Harry thinking he's the brave Auror and all, and really Hermione's the bravest one of us-she's got to face the Greasy Git every single day, for the rest of her life."

"Ron-" she frowned.

"No, no, I mean really, how do you put up with it? War hero or no, he's a right bastard, and we all know it. Always swooping about like a great bat, scaring the living piss out of everyone-hey, have you found out if it's true if he's a vampire or not? That would explain why he's not here today-way too much sunlight. Where is the slimy prat anyway?"

"Right behind you, Mr. Weasley," came the silken voice. Ron froze, his face going absolutely white, then red, at last settling on a distinct shade of purple. "Oh. . s-sir, I didn't. . . that is. . ."

"Spare me, Mr. Weasley. You are no longer in school, more's the pity. You're perfectly free to despise me if you wish, though I do wish you'd lower your voice about it. Hermione, when you have a moment tomorrow, I need to see you. I am returning to Hogwarts tonight."

"Of course, Severus."

"Now, with your compatriots' permission, I must swoop away."

He gave a curt bow and retreated down the long mirrored hallway. "Thanks very bloody much, Ron," she hissed.

"Severus?" He looked as though he might be sick.

"Oh, grow up." She elbowed him in the ribs.

They spent the night drinking at the Leaky Cauldron, in a passable imitation of the camaraderie of their school days. The banter was carefully lighthearted, the jokes not too edged. Watching them both as they chatted and laughed together, Hermione felt a surge of pride in the handsome young men her friends had grown to be. Neither of them seemed to feel the least bit of awkwardness around her, she noted with a twinge. At the end of school last year, Ron had taken it surprisingly well when she had given him the "let's be friends" speech. So well, in fact, that she wondered if perhaps he had been a trifle relieved. And Harry, Harry for whom she had secretly longed all those years, with whom she had wanted more than just sex, glorious though it was . . well, after his initial fit of pique, Harry had given her no trouble when she had broken off their little affair. Evidently, she was not the sort men made a fuss about.

"'Mione! Earth to Hermione!"

"Hm? Oh, sorry. Just thinking."

"About what?" Harry leaned in.

"Um. . classes."

"It's July," Ron said, looking at her as though she had grown another head.

"Right. Well, I've got a lot to plan for. I mean, I sort of came in during the middle of last year, didn't I? I've never done the whole introduction thing before. There's really quite a lot to plan."

"Oh, I don't know." Harry gave a grin. "I'll bet Snape wouldn't mind if you borrowed his notes." He lowered his voice and cocked his brow. "'There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,'" he intoned in a decently Snapish voice.

"Oh, stop. Say what you will, he knew how to keep a class on its toes. I've spent the whole year shouting to be heard. Right now, I find the idea of striking a little terror appealing."

"God help the poor sods," murmured Ron in his pint.

She shot him a look. "Say, Harry, when did Sirius say he was getting here?"

He swirled his beer. "Dunno. Won't show up til tomorrow, I expect. He owled me last month he was planning on being here, but I haven't talked to him since."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure he'll be here."

"Yeah."

A silence fell, until Ron started in on the latest Quidditch scores and the follies of the Chudley Cannons. Good old Ron, she thought. Always the grease that kept us going. They drank a few more pints, then stumbled back to Harry's flat still mildly drunk. It was a comfortable wreck of a place-robes and T-shirts flung over furniture, cereal bowls in the sink, overflowing ashtrays on the tables. Hermione raised her eyebrows. Ron declared it a palace and promptly collapsed on the sofa, snoring like Hagrid after a bender.

Hard to believe he was the Junior Deputy Assistant Undersecretary for the Abuse of Magic Office. Abuse of magic, Harry and Hermione had asked that morning at breakfast last year, when he had declared his intention of trying for a position there. What on earth is that? He had blushed and mumbled something unintelligible. Only after a great deal of digging at Mr. Weasley had they discovered that the Abuse of Magic Office concerned itself with wizards and witches who used magic for "illicit purposes." Illicit purposes? they had asked. He had turned the exact shade of crimson as his son. Well, he had finally said, criminal activities. He had coughed and lowered his voice. Magical sex crimes. Ooooh. They had nodded sagely. Herrmione still spent some time wondering what those might be and how to find out more about them. She had been too embarrassed to ask Ron.

Harry gave her the bed- a dubious honour she thought, examining its rumpled linens and wondering when was the last time they had been changed. He piled on the bedroom floor in the enormous puffy quilt she had given him for his birthday last year. It had been intended as a bedcover, to help him set up housekeeping, but she suspected this was the first time it had been dragged out of the closet.

"Harry," she whispered, after a bit of listening to him toss and turn.

"Yeah," he answered back from the dark.

"Sirius is going to come."

He was quiet for a minute. "I expect he will. He said he would, after all, and he always does what he says. It's just-I've really missed him this year, you know?"

"I know," she said softly.

"I don't understand why he left like that. And he never really told me why, not really."

"Well. . ." she began. "Don't take it so hard, Harry. I don't think-I don't think it had anything to do with you or how much he cares about you."

"Right."

"I mean it."

She sighed. It had been a strange year. She had felt a bit like when she was seven and her mother had taken her to see the Nutcracker. She had sat transfixed, believing with all her heart in Clara and the Mouse King and the Nutcracker Prince. And then, her mother had produced two special passes, and taken her backstage to meet the dancers, and they were just men and women in dress-up after all, wearing greasepaint and fur and carrying wooden swords. She had been both thrilled and keenly disappointed. She listened until Harry's breathing slowed and evened. Then she got up and searched out his cigarettes (behind the sugar bin, just like Sirius) and sat on the window ledge, smoking and thinking far into the morning.

* * *

Sirius did show up, of course, and well in time to see Harry solemnly sworn in as an Auror. Harry looked very grave as the golden linked chain was placed around his neck. Sirius caught Remus's eye and saw the same thought flit across his face-so like James.

And afterward, at the reception for the new Aurors, Sirius pulled him aside and embraced him and told him how proud he was, and handed him a little box. Inside, nested in a silk cloth, was a gold compass with curious designs around its face-constellations and tiny blue planets and fanciful zodiacal creatures prancing and spinning. The points on the compass were spinning too, and the six slender arms. Harry had never seen anything like it. He ran his finger over its polished surface, feeling the heft of it in his hand.

"It's beautiful, Sirius. How does it work?"

"It's no ordinary compass. You can spell it to another person, and it will tell you exactly where that person is. Watch." He took the compass in his hand. "Where is Sirius Black," he said, and the six arms began spinning madly, the creatures danced and whirled, the planets and stars wheeled in their orbits. Abruptly the arms stopped, and the creatures began to dance up and down them in fanciful leaps. The stars and planets began to glow and pulse. He handed it back to Harry. "There you are. A complete set of apparating co-ordinates."

"My God." Harry looked at it in awe. "Sirius, this must have cost a fortune. You shouldn't have."

Sirius smiled faintly. "It did cost a good bit, but I wasn't the one that bought it. It was a gift to me, long ago."

Harry turned the compass over and flipped open the back cover. Engraved in flowing script on the little lid were these words: To SB From JP. He looked up at Sirius. "My dad gave this to you," he said softly.

"Yes. Long ago. You can spell it to another person, but only with that person's consent. I'll show you how it's done. You can spell it to any number of people, if you wish; the compass never forgets anyone."

Harry studied it for a minute. "Where is James Potter," he asked. All whirring and spinning stopped, and the compass was still. They watched it together for a moment. "Sirius. I don't know what to say. This is. . .the most precious thing anyone's ever given me. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to give it to you. I should have done it long ago. At any rate, if ever you need me, wherever I am, you can find me."

Harry frowned. "But how will . . ." A thought struck him. "Sirius. Was there another one of these?"

Sirius hesitated. "Yes. It was one of a set. Your father had the other one. I don't know what became of it."

"Yes you do. He must have had it on him that night, didn't he? That's how you knew he was dead so quickly. Hagrid told me about it years ago-he said you were the first one there."

"Yeah," he answered faintly.

Harry considered a moment. "I have something to give you too." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn and creased piece of parchment. He carefully unfolded it and handed it to Sirius. "This belongs to you anyway."

"Dear God," he said. "I had no idea. . . Sweet Merlin." He ran his hand lovingly over the Marauders' Map. He broke into a grin. "Thank you, Harry. I'll put it to no good use, I promise."

"See that you don't." Harry gave him a devilish grin, and Remus, watching from the other side of the room, thought that from a distance, their dark heads bent together, he would have mistaken them for James and Sirius, twenty years ago. Then Harry looked up and caught his eye and grinned, and Remus raised his glass of punch back at him.

"Sickle for your thoughts." Hermione leaned in at her colleague's other side.

"Thinking about this summer, actually."

"Oh? Exotic vacation plans?"

"Rather, by my standards. Sirius says he plans to be in England most of the rest of the summer, and wants me to come to the cottage."

"It's too bad Harry's got to leave at once for Moldavia. He deserves a nice long holiday."

"Oh, I think it'll be a while before he gets one of those. I have a feeling Harry's being groomed for Chief Auror. Maybe he'll be the youngest ever. Gryffindor seems to be breeding prodigies these days." He turned to her. "Listen, why don't you come up with us? I know Sirius'd be thrilled to have you. And I'm sure you could get plenty of work done there, if you need to. Unless your family's expecting you, that is."

"No," she said gravely. "I don't believe they are. I think they thought the whole magic thing was something I needed to get out of my system. An eccentricity they were indulging. I think they really expected me to finish school and become a dentist. They're a bit disappointed with me, actually."

"Then come spend the summer with us. We're impossible to disappoint. We have no expectations."

"I think you mean standards."

"Whichever."

Ginny Weasley had her by the elbow the next minute, dragging her away to a cluster of chattering Gryffindor girls among whom Hermione looked utterly at sea. Remus smiled, and drifted away to the open window.

* * *

Sirius began the slow trudge up the hill from Hogsmeade just as the sun was setting that evening. It put him in mind of the last time he had taken this walk, a year and a half ago. The weather was milder now, the red gold light fiercer. He took his time, gathering his thoughts. When he crested the hill within sight of the castle, it was full dark. He pulled out the map and his wand. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he said, and wanted to laugh aloud. Truer words. Little dots and labels began to appear on the map, but not the one he was searching for. At last he saw it. Of course, he thought. I might have known. He tucked the map back in his pocket and hit the ground as Padfoot, trotting off the path to the left and around to the hill behind.

The man did not see or sense him at first, so he took the opportunity to watch. He sat perched on a large boulder, arms around his knees like a schoolboy, gazing steadily into the distance. Padfoot followed the man's gaze to the opposite hill, and caught his breath. Sure enough, there they were. Two centaurs were outlined against the rising moon, gently pawing the turf and watching the stars.

"They are here almost every night when the weather is warm."

The dog stood gracefully, shaking his ruff out into a tangled mane of dark hair. The man on the rock did not turn around.

"You're awfully trusting."

"You're awfully loud, moving through the woods."

"Must be getting old."

"Must be."

He sat beside him and they watched in silence. One of the centaurs glanced over at their hill and seemed to look directly at them.

"Do you think they can see us?"

"Of course they can, Black. Don't be an idiot."

After a while the centaurs moved on, not sparing another glance for their watchers. The surface of the lake below was untroubled, mirroring the dense stars of the northern sky.

"The ceremony was beautiful today. You should have been there. He did Hogwarts proud."

"I'm sure. Potter's never disappointed anyone in his life." He shifted and crossed his legs. "Your star will be rising soon."

"I know." He looked around him. "You spend a lot of time here."

"Yes. It helps me think."

"I've been thinking, too."

"Have you."

"Do you want to hear what I think?"

"You did come all this way."

"I think. . . I think that Albus's gifts are impossible to throw away. Somehow, they keep finding their way back."

Snape turned his head to face him. "That is very true," he said. "He once gave me a scented bath lotion that was spelled to shriek maniacally when thrown in the rubbish bin. It also sang, and the only way to lower the volume was to pour off some of the lotion. Couldn't just pour it down the drain-Albus was sniffing me at every meal to see if I'd been using it. Most disconcerting."

Sirius grinned. "What did you do?"

"Poured the whole thing into an enormous tub at once and soaked for two hours. I had not known, until I submerged myself in it at toxic levels, that I have a severe allergy to lavender."

Sirius nodded thoughtfully. "I'll keep that in mind." He watched a fish break the still surface of the lake. The merpeople must be hunting, he thought. "Snape. I want my job back."

"It's yours."

"There are other things I want back as well."

"They are yours too."

Sirius turned his head. Snape was watching him. "Did you leave before I got to London today because you wanted to avoid me?"

"No. I wanted to see you, and I thought the only way to do that would be to wait here."

"All right." He moved his head fractionally closer, just to see. Snape did not move away. He moved closer still, and Snape's only response was watchfulness. "Severus. A little help here would be nice."

The firm, hungry lips were on his before his sentence was done. He felt Snape's hand come up and cradle his head, twisting a finger through the thick hair at the nape of his neck. After their initial eagerness, Sirius pulled back and relaxed the kiss to a slow exploratory pace. It occurred to him they had not done this before-simple contact with no sexual objective imminent. Just kissing. Like lovers. The thought made his chest tighten and he groaned and pulled Snape closer.

"Black."

"Mm."

"Stop or I'll do something that will send the centaurs running for cover."

He pulled off with a laugh, and ran a tentative finger down the side of Snape's face, brushing back the hair. "I said it before and I'll say it again. You are one hell of a kisser."

Snape began a lazy path with his mouth down the side of his jaw, down his neck, and up again.

"I thought you told me to stop."

"That was you. This is me."

Sirius tilted his head back to give greater access to his neck. He reached a hand down to brush the stiffening lump in Snape's trousers. Snape's gasp shot to his groin.

"Severus." He pushed him gently away, hands on his shoulders. "Let's get inside now."

Snape pulled him to his feet. Sirius winced.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just the arm. It still gives me trouble, sometimes."

Snape rubbed the forearm until the muscle spasms ceased. "I was wondering," he mused, not looking up from his task. "Do you still hate me?"

"I have never hated you more, you insufferable bastard."

"Just checking." He thrust his hands in his pockets and began the long trudge down to the castle. "Did you-" The man at his side had disappeared. The large shaggy dog blinked up at him. "Oh for heaven's sake. Try to give me some warning. What an irritating habit."

They walked in silence down the hill, the dog taking care to bump into him on the narrow path as often as possible. The man threatened him with a stick, but the dog opened his wide mouth in a grin and raced ahead of him down the hillside.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Arcadia **

It was an enchanted summer. The little cottage by the sea had been shut up since December, and it had taken almost a week to air everything out. Hermione had taken over at once, stripping linens off beds and covers off the furniture, and hanging it all outside to absorb the sun and the heady scent of the overgrown garden. Sirius and Remus watched in amusement as she tied her hair in a scarf and set to scrubbing floors and windows. The afternoon she had caught Remus using his wand to animate the mop while he sat flipping through the paper had very nearly been his last. Hermione, child of Muggles, took a dim view of the efficacy of magical cleaning.

When she was done with the house, she turned her considerable energies to the garden. Most afternoons, Sirius, Remus, and Snape sat in the shade and watched her stake the roses- or more accurately, beat them into submission. She had sniffed at Sirius's stack of magical gardening books, muttering about Gertrude Jekyll and art and old-fashioned fortitude. Every afternoon she pulled on her garden gloves and waded into the jungle outside the windows, barking orders at any luckless helper like a pith-helmeted generalissima. More often than not it was Snape who ended up assisting her, to the others' great amusement. Finally, someone more intimidating than Snape, Sirius had remarked to Remus as they watched her browbeat him.

Snape left for a day and returned the next with six gigantic parcels of potions supplies. He had proposed turning the kitchen into a makeshift potions laboratory, but in the interests of edible food Sirius had overruled him, exiling all cauldrons and poisonous substances to the wash room off the kitchen. Snape had grumbled but complied, and in short order Hermione was closeted with him during the days, bent over steaming cauldrons and bubbling vats of foul-smelling stuff. Remus remarked that it was probably a plot on Snape's part to avoid any more enslavement in the garden.

One morning about ten days after the arrival of the potions lab, Hermione emerged for dinner flushed and triumphant.

"I've done it," she announced, reaching for the vegetable stew. Imposing vegetarianism on the cottage's inhabitants had been another of her projects, less successful than the others, but at least now there was always an alternative to beef stew on the table.

"Oh? What's that?" Sirius asked.

"I have just brewed my first successful batch of Wolfsbane. It took every bit of the last ten days, too. I've been studying it most of the year but have never tried it completely on my own before. Severus says it's right-well, he grunted, and I'm assuming that means 'splendid work, Professor Granger.'"

Sirius chuckled. "Really. I thought that meant 'I love you madly, Sirius.' We'll have to compare notes."

Remus pushed back his chair and took his plate into the kitchen. Hermione called after him. "The full moon's day after tomorrow, so of course I'll have to brew it all again since it's got to be fresh, but I know for sure now I can do it. And this will be so much more convenient for everyone-so often this past term Severus has had to leave everything hanging and tear around in the final hours getting the potion ready, and you've been nervous, I know, about what could happen if he were called away suddenly, and here we have it all figured out." She took another bite of stew, ravenous after her day's labour. "Don't you think?" she called, a bit louder.

"Oh yes. Tremendous work, Hermione. Congratulations." Remus stalked back through the dining room and headed up the stairs without another word. She set her spoon down and stared at her plate. She frowned, as though considering, then picked up her spoon again and plowed through the rest of her stew in grim silence. Sirius said nothing, but lit a cigarette and stretched out his feet, watching her from behind his veil of smoke. She coughed pointedly but he ignored her. After another minute she cleared her plate and his too, and started in on the dishes. She clattered them around furiously, and in the interest of his crockery Sirius toyed with helping her, but rejected it. He got up and walked back to the wash room, making sure the door was fast behind him. He stubbed out his cigarette on his shoe and tossed it out the open window.

"Why did you do that?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?" Snape was absorbed in the careful measuring of some viscous purplish stuff into a beaker.

"Teach Hermione to brew the Wolfsbane."

"Why on earth wouldn't I? It's a bloody nuisance and difficult as hell. I'm glad to be relieved of it." He tapped his stirring rod against the side of the cauldron.

Sirius gritted his teeth. "There are one or two questions you ought to have asked her first."

"What are you on about."

"What I'm on about-" he lowered his voice. "What I'm on about is, you should have asked her first if she's ever slept with a werewolf."

Snape looked at him like he was insane. "Don't be an idiot, Black. Of course she hasn't slept with a werewolf. She's been at Hogwarts for the last eight years. Cloistered nuns get out more than she does."

Sirius looked at him. "Severus. Are you really not getting this?"

Snape set down the beaker and frowned, comprehension dawning. "Damn it," he said at last. "I'm going to kill him. What the hell does he think he's doing? She's half his age, for heaven's sake. I'm going to wring his bloody neck." He tossed a towel into the sink.

Sirius crossed his arms. "Calm down. I don't know for sure that they've ever slept together. But I gather from Remus's reaction that something like that might have happened. Did you really say nothing to her about what can happen if the Wolfsbane is brewed by. .. ." He hesitated. "Well. . . I remember Guffries saying that those sorts of potions can't be brewed by anyone who's had sexual contact with the recipient, that it upsets the balance of the magic. . ." He trailed off. Images of Remus's mouth closed on Snape's cock were threatening to undo him.

"Penetration." Snape was staring out the window. "That's the word Guffries so carefully avoided." He frowned and chewed his lip. "Werewolf sexuality is a tricky thing," he mused. "Sirius. Tell me you never let him-"

"No," Sirius said hastily. "No. You should know better."

Snape met his eyes. "Yes, I should. At any rate." He sighed. "Wolves of any sort don't let go, not once they've had a taste. They mark their territory, and that sort of possessiveness can destroy all the careful balance of a potion like Wolfsbane."

"Well. Also, Hermione could have been a little less the show-offy schoolgirl about the whole thing."

"Lupin is overly sensitive," Snape snorted. "She has no idea what she's mucking about with. It should be a lesson to him to keep his lecherous hands to himself. He's lucky I don't slice them off. Or something else."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Well. Quite the outraged paterfamilas, aren't we."

"I am no such thing."

"All right. Jealous as hell, then."

Snape gave him a sharp look. "I sincerely hope you are joking."

"Mainly. Not entirely. She clearly adores you, and you clearly adore being adored."

Snape sighed and began stoppering jars and replacing them on shelves. "You don't understand. Hermione. . .you haven't been teaching long enough to know what it's like when the real thing walks into your classroom. She's better than I am, did you know that? Or she will be, in another ten years or so. She's absolutely brilliant at Potions, and she loves it. Loves it in a way I never really did." He stopped and leaned on the counter. "I was the same cruel bastard to her that I was to everyone else. If anything, more so. It was my duty. I had to play favourites with the insufferable Malfoy brat just to keep myself from doting on her. I knew she hated me for it. But now. . .now I think she doesn't hate me. And yes, much as it pains me, I admit that is. . .important to me."

Sirius smiled. "Why, Snape. You've gone soft in your old age."

"Oh, bugger off," he growled.

"Come here," he laughed. He pulled him close and ran a hand through the limp mess of Snape's hair. "After a day in here, you're a wreck. A good long soak is what you need."

"I was thinking of it, actually. Care to scrub my back?"

"Mm. I think I might be persuaded." Their lips met in a long slow kiss. He rocked his hips against Snape's and smirked. "Well, not completely soft, at any rate."

"You're hopeless. Is sex all you think about?"

"Well, it has been a while."

"Yes, this morning was ages ago. I don't know how it is you're holding on."

"By a thread. Kiss me some more."

* * *

After waiting around a bit, Hermione figured Sirius was not coming out of the little lab, and headed up the stairs to her room. She pulled on her long nightshirt and brushed her hair, watching her reflection. She scowled at it, then rummaged in the dresser drawer. She thought she had seen a pair earlier-yes, there they were. She pulled out the shears. Before she could give herself time to think, she held out a hank of her hair and whacked it just above her jaw. She did not stop until the floor at her feet was covered in golden brown hair.

She tilted her head at her reflection, then picked up the shears again. Shorter, she thought with grim determination. When she set the shears down, her hair was a close cropped cap. Her eyes looked larger, the thrust of her jaw more prominent. It would definitely do.

She left the hair where it was and crawled under the covers, burrowing her newly lightened head into the down pillow. Sleep claimed her quickly, as it always did after a hard day's labour over a boiling cauldron. She knew nothing more until a faint chiming, crystalline sound reached into her dream. It sounded familiar, and at once oddly out of place. Her sleep-fogged brain struggled to rouse. She heard the sound again, and her eyes focused on a tumbler of amber liquid with ice swimming in it. As a hand lifted the glass, the ice chimed and tinkled against the side.

"Remus?" she asked thickly. "What are you doing?"

The figure stretched in the chair said nothing, but continued watching her. She sniffed the air. "Good God. Are you drunk?"

"I expect so. It's been a waste of a good bottle of Ogden's if I'm not. What did you do to your head?"

She sat up and ran a hand over it. "Oh. Took a notion."

"I'll say. Who do you think I am, Hermione?"

She rubbed her face to clear the sleep off. "Who do I. . . I have no idea what you're asking me."

"I'm asking you," he slurred only a little bit, "why you've been avoiding me all term."

"Don't be silly. I've not been avoiding you. We see each other twenty times a day."

"You know what I mean."

She did, of course. "I just thought," she sighed, "that we should try to maintain a more. . .professional distance. To avoid. . . anything unwise."

"Unwise," he repeated softly. "Fucking a werewolf's not very wise, is it?"

"That has nothing to do with anything."

"Then you're an idiot. It has everything to do with. . everything. Whatever. Which brings us back to the question of who you think I am."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Do you think I'm one of the little boys you've fucked, Hermione? Or the nice, safe little girls? Do you think I'm Harry, or Ron, that you can tell me what I'm going to do and I'll do it? That you can push me away and I'll obey, like a good little boy? Let me tell you what I'm definitely not, Prefessor Granger." He leaned closer and the smell of the whiskey overpowered her. "I am definitely not a good little boy."

For the first time it occurred to her to be afraid, but it only stiffened her voice."You're drunk. This conversation is over. Good night, Remus." She lay back down and pulled the blankets up over her, turning her back to him.

"Look at me," he growled. She did not turn. "I said, look at me!" He grabbed her roughly and turned her over, his whiskey breath hot on her face. His fingers gripped her arms too tightly, and she winced.

"Remus," she gasped. "you're scaring me."

"Good. It's time someone scared the shit out of you. Maybe you're scared enough to tell me the truth. Tell me you don't lie in your prim little bed at night and think about me." He lowered his mouth to her neck and began a series of little licks and nips at it. She shuddered. "Tell me you don't think about my cock in you, fucking you."

With one hand he yanked the covers down and lifted her nightdress. He plunged a hand into her underwear. She struggled, but he held her effortlessly. It had not occurred to her before how frighteningly strong he was. His finger dipped into her folds.

"Sweet Christ," he murmured. "you're wet for me already. So wet," he moaned, moving his finger deeper. She gave a little cry and twitched against the invading finger. He pulled his hand out slowly and licked it, closing his eyes. She felt another flood of wetness start, watching him. Still holding her firmly, he freed himself from his trousers, kicking them off, and ripped her underwear off. Without warning he plunged his hardened cock into her.

She gave a tremendous cry and arched back. He froze. "Tell me," he husked in her ear. "Tell me you want it."

"Yes," she whimpered, beyond shame. "I want it. I want you to fuck me."

He pushed even deeper into her at that, and brought her legs up around him. He held her eyes as he drove into her, and her first orgasm washed over her as she dug her nails into his back, pushing up against him desperately. He stopped and watched her, riding it with her. "Hang on," he muttered as she came down, and pulled out of her abruptly, flipping her on her side and re-entering her from behind, so hard and so deep she gasped at the shock of it. He began moving more slowly, bring his hand around to her front, circling her clit with lazy little motions.

"Oh, Jesus-Remus-fuck, what are you-"

Her second orgasm flooded her on the heels of her first as he flicked her clit relentlessly. She struggled for breath, her whole body shaking. "Remus-I didn't think you liked. . ."

"You don't know the first thing," he panted on her neck, "about what I like." His cock slid in and out of her at a more deliberate pace now. He hiked her leg higher and pushed even deeper. "You don't have any idea the things I want to do to you."

"I don't-ah, God, yes. . .please. . ."

He was grunting with each thrust now, and he brought his other arm around her neck to brace himself. "Scream for me, Hermione. Let go."

She threw her legs farther apart and pushed back against him. "Please. . ." she moaned.

"Please what? This?" He stroked her clit again, maddeningly gentle. She sobbed at it.

"Oh, God. . .please, come with me. . . I want to feel you. . ."

He lost his control at that and began to pound her without any thought but his own release, held back so long. "Ah, Hermione. . .Hermione, yes. . I'm-oh. . ." Her third orgasm tore through her and gripped his cock in a wave of slick muscle tightening on him. He bucked and thrust against her, and she felt his hot seed spurt in her, flooding her with warmth and drawing out her own orgasm as she pulsed around him. He was murmuring what sweet obscenities she knew not, and she heard a hoarse scream rip from her throat as they descended into the blackness together, shuddering.

* * *

Snape threw back the blankets and sat up. "I'm going to kill him."

"Oh, calm down, Severus. She probably. . . I don't know, stubbed her toe on the way to the bathroom or something."

"Right. First thing in the morning, I'm going to sack him."

Sirius chuckled. "Lie back down, you idiot. At least someone in this house is getting some."

"I don't believe it. Four hours later and you're complaining again?"

"Mm. Clearly you're not doing your job."

"Oh, bloody hell. Come here."

* * *

"Hermione. That was not. . . surely that was not what I intended to do." He eased out of her and collapsed.

She lifted her head. "Why ever not?"

"You're still speaking to me?"

"Apparently." She turned over carefully to look at him. "What the hell was that about, Remus?"

He ran his hands through his hair and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "That was about what my body needs right before the full moon."

"A good fuck?" Her voice was hollow.

"Among other things. I'm sorry if I hurt you." He reached for his trousers on the floor and began pulling them on.

"You didn't. Not like you are now, anyway."

He froze at that. "Hermione," he said, not looking at her.

"Just get out." She rolled over and pulled the blankets closer. "And next time you need a way to forget who Sirius is screwing in the other room, try a nice long run around the cove and a cold shower afterwards."

She heard nothing from the other side of the room until the door clicked shut. She bit her lip until it bled, refusing to cry.

* * *

Breakfast was a glum affair. Sirius choked on his coffee when Hermione entered, and Snape's fork clattered on his plate. Remus did not look up.

"Holy hell, Hermione," Sirius managed at last. "What happened to your hair?"

"It fell off." She poured herself some cofffee, her usual morning sunshine not in evidence.

Snape was scowling. "Put it back on at once."

"Thank you, Headmaster. You look nice this morning, too."

They ate in silence. Sirius glanced at Remus occasionally, but he did not look up from his toast and marmalade. Finally Snape pushed pack his chair.

"Right. I'll just get started on that Wolfsbane, then. It should be ready for tomorrow night if I start now."

No one commented. Breakfast continued in silence until Hermione got up and followed Snape into the wash room lab. Sirius waited until she was out the door before he spoke.

"Remus. . . " he began.

Lupin cut him off. "Don't."

Sirius nodded and returned to his coffee. Remus took a last swallow of coffee and went into the garden with a stack of periodicals he gathered from the sitting room and a parhment and quill. Sirius watched him out the window as he sat in total concentration, scratching occasional notes on his parchment. He considered invading Snape and Hermione's little kingdom in the wash room, but he tended to stay out of it while she was there, leaving them to their own mysterious devices. He sighed and headed out the back door to the shore below the bluff.

He spent the rest of the day lazing in the sun on the rocky shingle, alternating quiet reflection with the novel he was working through. Half a year at Durmstrang had got his German in fighting trim again, and he was enjoying revisting Goethe now that it was no longer a chore. He must have dozed, because when he woke there was a tall dark shadow above him blocking his light.

"How is young Werther getting on?"

"Oh. Sorrowfully." He shielded his eyes. "I expect he'll pull through."

Snape sat beside him, loosening his collar.

"Success?"

"Of course."

"We must do something about your lack of confidence."

Snape watched the sea with him for a bit. "Do you ever swim?"

"I go every day. Have you really not noticed?"

He shrugged. "I thought you showered frequently. Care to go with me?"

"Where?"

"Into the water, you dolt. I'm broiling hot from that horrid little room you've imprisoned us in, and I want a good plunge to cool me off." He stood and began stripping, folding his clothes neatly on the rocks. Sirius stretched and watched from under his eyelids appreciatively.

"Aren't you coming?" Snape loomed over him, hands on hips.

Sirius smiled. "All right then." He stripped, tossing off his clothes haphazardly, aware of Snape's eyes on him. He stretched his arms above his head in a way he was perfectly aware showed him to best advantage.

"Shameless flirt." He grabbed Sirius's arms and yanked them down playfully. Sirius flinched and went white.

"Damn it, Black, I'm sorry." Snape massaged the upper arm remorsefully. "How much of that pain potion are you taking?"

"Oh-not so much, really."

"Sirius. How much?" He ceased his massage and frowned.

"I-" he dropped his eyes. "Three vials a day. Sometimes more."

Snape said nothing. Sirius looked out at the sea. "I can't sustain that, I know. I'll drop it down for the school year. I just wanted-I just wanted this summer." He watched the gulls swoop in the distance. "Severus. Don't be angry."

"Angry?" Snape asked faintly. "You. . ." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not angry."

"Come on. Let's have that swim."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's just my arm, for God's sake. I've been swimming since I was born. I could swim the Channel if I had to. And I could definitely beat you to that buoy and back."

"As usual, your pathetic braggadocio will be your undoing. Five galleons says you'll swallow my wake."

"Five galleons, and the loser cooks for the rest of the week."

"You're on."

* * *

Hermione emerged from the wash room a little before tea time to a quiet house. She could see Lupin out the kitchen window, his back to her, sitting in the shade with his piles of papers and journals. She sighed and put the kettle on for tea. Snape had been gone for some time. Apparently she was on her own for tea.

She was rummaging through Sirius's disordered cabinets for the tea when she heard a faint noise in the distance. Some neighbour shouting, perhaps. Odd, since they were all pensioners who rarely ventured down to the cove. She had passed the whole month without glimpsing their nearest neighbours more than once. She peered out the window, frowning, in time to see Remus scattering his papers as he leapt up and ran wildly down the hill. She burst out the door behind him, a nameless terror clutching her chest.

* * *

Snape entered the surf, still mildly chilled on this northern coast even in late July, in a clean dive. There was little to no shelf along this section of coast, and he was in over his head quickly, slicing through the bracing water in his disciplined, practised stroke. Black was right behind him, but his more athletic style carried him rapidly beyond Snape. He was counting on his greater stamina, however, to carry the day, and he kept his head down, avoiding great bursts of speed until the last.

He lifted his head out of the water as he neared the buoy, to make sure he wasn't straying too far off course. A breeze had kicked up a chop in the water. Once beyond the sheltering arms of the cove, the current was swift and treacherous, and he needed to have a care not to overshoot the mark. He looked behind him, then ahead to see if he could see where Black was. He stopped and paddled water for a minute, waiting for a sight of the sleek black head. And waited.

In four seconds, he knew Black was in trouble. He did not waste a heartbeat on panic, but dove under the surface, forcing his eyes open in the murky salt water. No visibility. He brought his head up and shouted.

"Black! Black! Answer me!"

The hammer of his heart in his ears was drowning out the slap of the waves. He dove under immediately, moving to the left of the buoy now and as deep as he dared. The water quickly became lightless and black, even at these relatively shallow depths. He tried to plot Black's trajectory in his head-he had entered the water behind him and slightly to the left. He made the swim every day, so he would have been unlikely to stray off target.

"Sirius!" He shouted with all his strength, and got a mouthful of salt water. The breeze was increasing now. He dove back under and moved steadily toward the shore, plunging deep, then re-surfacing to shout, forcing his brain and the fear knocking inside it to shut down as he worked. He fought the seconds as they ticked by, and he had no idea if he had been at it for three minutes or fifteen. After every deep plunge and sweep, he would surface to shout Black's name, but he never saw the dark head he desperately sought.

After his third dive, he saw Lupin on the shore, stripping in haste. Lupin dove into the surf with the grace of the natural swimmer. Hermione was tumbling down the slope behind him, shouting something. He dove back under, aware that his dives were getting shorter because his breathing was constricting. He wasn't getting enough oxygen. The fear and panic were overriding him now, and he could no longer beat them back. On his last dive he struck his head on a hard pebbled surface and came up gasping; he stumbled onto land, unaware he was shouting Black's name still. He tried to run back into the surf but his legs were jelly, and he fell to his knees and retched salt water, pushing Hermione away as he tried to rise to say something to Lupin, who was striding back through the shallows now.

"We were racing to the buoy," he panted, "I was almost there before I noticed he was gone. I've swept as much as I can of the cove. Hermione, you know how to use a telephone-ring the local constable's office and get someone out here. A search party. Lupin, you've met the neighbours-someone's bound to have a dinghy tied up somewhere. He must have been carried out beyond the cove. You and I can get out there faster than anyone. What are you waiting for?" he barked at Hermione. "Run, goddamnit!"

She raced back up the bluff, scraping and tripping over the furze and rocks. Lupin shrugged his clothes back on without a word and took off in the opposite direction. Only then did Snape realise he was still naked. He stumbled over to the little pile of clothes, but froze at the sight of Black's clothes strewn beside his. He tried to pull on his clothes, but his fingers would not stop shaking, and he could not fight down the vision he had struggled against for so long as he searched: the last sight he had had of Black, his dark hair streaming in the breeze behind him as he hit the surf at a run, laughing and calling to him. _See you on the other side, Severus._

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Waste and Empty **

It was Hermione who was the most effective one of them all, in the end. She was the only one who had any substantial knowledge of the way the Muggle world worked. Sirius did, of course, because of his Irish Muggle mother, whose picure was perched on a bookshelf in the parlour, who had given him her dark hair and grey eyes. She was what they called black Irish, one of the descendants of a Spanish soldier shipwrecked after the loss of the Armada in 1588. Sirius's long-forgotten ancestor had settled down, as so many of those survivors did, with a local girl, and generations later his offspring were still sporting, atop their porcelain skin and light eyes, hair black as midnight. Snape thought of this story-of that ancestor's survival of shipwreck and the perilous waters of the Irish Sea-as he sat listening to Hermione talk to the Muggle constable in the kitchen.

She took over dealing with the authorities when a search party was finally sent out, hours after Remus and Snape had come back to shore, battered and exhausted. Neither of them had had much experience of the Muggle world, and she winced as she thought what they must look like to the constable and his men. Strange, long-haired men, a bit shaggy, their clothes rather odd, their manners bizarre. She made sure the wash room door was kept firmly locked. The constable had been most curious as to what she was doing up here alone with three older, vaguely sinister men. She had dug up an old Muggle photograph of Sirius, and it was clear from his expression the constable thought him rather the worst of the lot.

She had explained that they were school teachers on holiday, and talked a great deal about their school-Huddlesdon, an innocuous boarding school in Scotland, with plain stodgy buildings and bedraggled grounds. It was what any Muggle happening upon Hogwarts would see, unless a wizard cast aside the glamour for them. It was Huddlesdon that her parents had seen, until Dumbledore had waved his wand in front of them and revealed for them the beauty of the place their daughter called home. Her father had loved it, but her mother had been and remained deeply suspicious. Hermione rather thought her mother would have preferred the quiet dullness of Huddlesdon, and she knew for a fact the word "Hogwarts" had never been spoken to any of her mother's friends or relatives.

That night she had been the one to send the owl to Harry. Remus sat motionless at the kitchen table, and she hadn't needed to ask where Snape was. He had spent every moment of the day that wasn't taken up with police officers at the cove. Watching. Waiting. Searching. Her message to Harry had been brief.

_Dear Harry_, (she had written)

_Sirius has gone missing. Please come home at once._

Love,

H.

She had written several shorter and longer versions, but two words she did not use were dead or drowned. Missing seemed to about cover it. There was something missing in the house, as though a wall had blown off in the night and disappeared heaven knew where. The twenty-four hours before Harry's arrival were the longest of her life, as she wandered around the cold, shattered house trying to think what to do next. That first night, sometime after midnight, after Remus had closed the door of his room, she had gone down to the cove with a blanket and silently wrapped Snape, who sat on the rocks unmoving, unacknowledging her presence. She would have kept vigil with him, but knew he would not welcome it, so she made her way back to the house and sat in a puddle of lamplight in the parlour, suddenly afraid again, as she had not been since she was little, of the dark.

* * *

Without a body there was, of course, no funeral. They held a memorial service on the bluff behind the house, overlooking the cove. Harry presided, with Remus and Hermione, and McGonagall had come, and Ron, and Hagrid, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Ginny. Snape had not come. Indeed he had not returned to the cottage since the second day after Sirius's disappearance, and he had not answered any of Remus's owls.

The day after the service, Minerva McGonagall received an owl from him, requesting, very politely, that she pay a call on the headmaster at her earliest possible convenience. She had apparated to Hogsmeade at once, of course, and been in his office that afternoon. Nothing had been changed in the office; to her shock, she noted it looked as though Albus had just stepped out and would be back at any moment. Even Fawkes was still on his perch behind the desk.

Snape greeted her formally, and offered her tea. She had refused both the tea and his stiff attempts at small talk.

"You were sorely missed at the memorial service, Severus," she said sharply.

"I'm sure it was lovely. Would you like some coffee instead?"

"I don't want any coffee either. I want you to talk to me. Why didn't you come?"

He set his cup down. "I haven't all afternoon to waste in idle chatter. If you don't mind, I would like to get to business."

"And what business would that be?"

He picked up a letter on his desk and handed it across the desk to her. "I am leaving Hogwarts, and the school is going to need you."

She put the letter aside without reading it. "Severus, you utter nincompoop. You can't resign the headmastership. And you certainly can't hand it over to me."

He shrugged. "Just as you like. You should know, of course, that your decision will not affect mine in the slightest. What will happen, naturally, is that the Board of Governors will simply assume the headmastership, or appoint one of its members on a pro tem basis. Either way the results are likely to be disastrous, and I had thought the one way to forestall that would be to bring Minerva McGonagall out of a retirement she had no business entering in the first place."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He had never looked more impassive, more impossible to read. Hesitantly, she picked up the letter and read it. It was simply his notice of resignation, effective immediately, and his recommendation that Minerva McGonagall be appointed Acting Headmaster, and be confirmed in that position permanently as soon as possible. She folded it up and sighed.

"Minerva, there is no reason you can't move your family here, lock, stock, and barrel. You refused the headmastership once, when there was an acceptable alternative waiting in the wings. There is no one now, no one who can do what you can. I would think that the school to which you devoted your life would mean enough to you that you would aid her in her hour of need."

"That," she said indignantly, "is the most shameless thing I have ever heard out of your mouth, Severus Snape, and believe me, that represents some serious competition."

That got the barest quirk of a brow. "Do as you please, Minerva. I am still going to make my recommendation to the board, and you may have this argument with them, after my departure. I am bored with it. And now, if you please, I'd like to have my office back."

She rose in a snit, gathering her things and sweeping to the door. She stopped with her hand on the knob. "Severus."

"What is it?" He did not look up from the papers on his desk, and at that moment she knew with a terrible clarity what it was he was planning to do. The pieces had started to come together at the memorial service, from stray comments and hints she had heard out of one ear. A lifetime of teaching and heading Gryffindor house had made her a master of deductive reasoning, and not much escaped her. She knew now what Sirius Black had meant to Severus Snape, and she knew with a wrench in her gut what he meant by his "departure."

"You mean not to resign."

He did not glance up or answer her, but continued flipping through his papers. She dropped her cape and umbrella on the floor and crossed to the desk, gripping it tightly as though shaking him. "Severus. Severus Snape. That is the one thing you absolutely cannot do. I will not allow it."

He tossed aside a parchment and looked up. "How many children do you have, Minerva? I have never been quite sure."

She frowned. "Just one. Michael was an only child."

"And how old was he when Virgil died?"

"He was just a little thing. Only four."

"And had there been no Michael, are you honestly going to tell me you would not have done the exact same thing? Have you so much hypocrisy in you from forty years of spouting it daily that you cannot be honest and acknowledge you would have done it too, had you been able to?"

Her face was very still. "I most certainly would have done it. Not a day went by that I didn't think about it. But I hope that someone would have stopped me."

He gave a chilly smile. "You told the truth right up until the last part. Tell me, as one old adversary to another, when does inhaling cease to be painful?"

She paused and considered, and was on the verge of a lie when she met the smudged coal-pits of his eyes. "It doesn't. There are days, some of them, when it is rather better than others. That is all."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you. I thought that might be the case. I have not your fortitude, Minerva, nor do I aspire to it. At any rate," he rose, "give some thought to what I have said. Let me know your decision by the end of the week. Certainly my letter will be in the board's hands no sooner than that."

She pressed her lips together and looked at him for a long moment. When she looked away her eyes were glistening. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"Minerva." He bowed as she left the room, then sat and returned to the silent contemplation of his papers.

* * *

The first night and all of the next day after Sirius's disappearance had been taken up with the constable's office, the search party, and the mildly concerned but mainly curious neighbours. It was not until after three that second afternoon that she had remembered the Wolfsbane with a sickening jolt. By then, of course, it was too late. Not even Snape could finish brewing it in the few hours left, and he showed no sign of thinking about it. She went hunting for Remus and finally discovered him in the dark, dank little half basement. He was busy with hammer and spare lumber he had dug up from somewhere, barricading the door and the tiny window.

"Remus. Remus, let me in." She rattled the knob.

He shook his head. "Go on, Hermione. Get out of here. See if you can get Severus and apparate out of here, at least for the night." His voice was muffled behind the door, only the top of his head visible through the door's dusty window as he worked.

"No. Don't be an idiot, Remus, we. . ."

His head had come up abruptly, and she had felt a shock at the yellow already showing around the corners of his irises. "No." His voice was rougher than she had yet heard it. "I'm not the idiot here, Hermione. You have no idea what you're dealing with. It will not be me. You will be in danger. So will everyone in this cove, if I can't get this finished in time."

She had backed off then, and left him to his grim task. And that night, she had sat upstairs alone, shivering at the ghastly, terrifying sounds from underneath where she sat-howls and screams and snarls as the wolf hurled himself again and again against the door, the window, trying for any weakness, driven mad by the smell of human blood so close. She had wanted to run down to Snape in the cove, but another part of her had wanted to stay, to know what it was that Remus knew. She had felt it would be cowardice, even in the midst of their terrible grief, to leave, to stop her ears against it. So she had stayed, and endured.

The next morning, as soon as it was light, she had crept around the back of the house to the basement door and used her wand to slice through the barricades. She had almost retched at the sight that greeted her. The little room was shredded; even the walls bore teeth marks. Remus was naked, huddled on the floor, a bleeding, broken mass of wounds and bites where the enraged wolf had torn his own flesh. She had got him upstairs and tended him, and she had been unsure if his glassy stare had been the result of his change or his grief.

Harry had arrived shortly after that, and the rest of the day had been taken up with answering his questions, helping him understand, doing all the things that Harry needed done. And then Snape had gone, leaving with barely a word, and the last bit of life in the house-Harry's house now- had guttered and gone out.

* * *

"Hang on, Mum. I've got it." Hermione heaved her trunk onto the cart and pushed it down the platform. Her family visit could no longer be put off, much as she had wanted to avoid it. Her mother had insisted on picking her up at King's Cross, refusing to even acknowledge there was such a thing as apparating. "How've you been? How's Dad?"

"We're fine, dear. We're both just so thrilled you could spare the time. I know how busy you must be with your new job and all that responsibility."

"It's fine, Mum. It's all taken care of," she lied glibly. The truth was, she had no idea what she was supposed to be doing to get ready for school. She had been planning on Snape guiding her through the next few weeks. Now it looked like she was on her own.

"Your father and I were so sorry to get the news about your friend, dear. What a very upsetting thing that must have been."

"Yes," she said absently. "Your note was very kind. Is that taxi free?" She whistled sharply and stepped off the kerb. She noticed her mother assessing her appearance out of the corner of her eye.

"Your hair. . ." she sighed. "Well, at least it will be easier to take care of," she said chipperly.

"Mm-hm. Here, hand me that bag." She began tossing her things into the trunk. "And that-" she froze.

"What is it, dear?"

"I-nothing. That's got it then." She slammed the trunk and glanced back behind her again. She shook her head. "Shall we?"

* * *

Harry sat on the bluff, watching the white-capped waves crawl below. He had spent almost every day of the last week here, just sitting. Not even thinking, really, because thinking was painful. Certainly not remembering. He was grateful that Remus was staying on for a bit, even though they spoke little. Neither of them said anything about Sirius, shying away from the pat certainties of hugs and tears and shared stories. Grieving would make him dead, and that was something they were not willing to do.

Remus was kind, unfailingly thoughtful, but even he knew Remus was not really there. It was a polite shell. Harry kicked at a bit of moss with his foot. He wondered, if things had been different-he could not yet say, if Sirius had lived- if their relationship might have changed in time, if Sirius would have come to treat him less as a son and more as a companion, an equal. If he might have been allowed to know the man he was beginning to suspect was darker and more complex than he had imagined him, in his boyish worship, to be.

He started as Remus dropped gracefully beside him.

"Hey."

"You've been out here an awfully long time. Come have a bite to eat."

"In a minute." He squinted at the horizon. "It sounds crazy, I know. But I can't stop myself. I just keep looking."

"I know. I do the same thing."

He ran a hand through his mop of hair. "I'm leaving the Aurors. Did I tell you?"

"No. No, you didn't." He paused. "Now is not a good time to be making lots of decisions, Harry. For either of us."

"Yeah, I know that. But this one, I can't help. I know now-I can't ever go back. Not for a long time, anyway. I think- God, it sounds so juvenile. I think I only ever did it because I wanted to make Sirius proud."

"You did, Harry. But the hell of it is-all you ever had to do for that was walk into a room."

"Yeah. I know that too." He plucked at the turf some more, shredding it with his fingers. "I think I'll stay here for a while, you know? I just want to stop and think. I've never spent a whole lot of time doing that before," he said ruefully.

"Well, don't get in the habit."

"This place-I can't decide whether I want to burn it to the ground or live in it forever."

"Like I said before, decisions can wait."

"Yeah. No," he said suddenly. "I don't believe that anymore. You know what I think. I think we make our decisions instantly, just like that, and then we spend the rest of the time either trying to figure out what it is we've already secretly decided, or trying to talk ourselves out of it. Who we love, who we hate, what we really want. That's what I think."

Remus looked at him for the first time. He gave a short, bitter laugh. "I think you're not far wrong there."

"Yeah. Well, I dunno." He sighed. "I wish Hermione hadn't left."

Remus was silent. Harry stood and dusted off his pants where he had been sitting. He watched the gulls wheel around in the distance. "I was thinking tomorrow I might-" He stopped abruptly. Remus glanced up at him, then out where he was looking.

"What is it, Harry?"

"Sweet god damn," whispered Harry.

"Harry?"

Harry dug his fingers into Remus's shoulders and hauled him up. "Look," he said, his voice gone hoarse. Remus frowned. For a moment he wondered if Harry was all right. All he could see were the gulls swooping down for the evening feeding, divebombing the buoy. A gull landed on the buoy. And disappeared. Another one landed. It disappeared too. The breath left his lungs in a rush.

Harry's fingers dug into his arm painfully. "It's a portkey!" he shouted. "It's a motherfucking portkey! He won the race! He won the fucking race!"

The next second they were racing back to the cottage together, panting and stumbling and falling over each other as they shouted.

* * *

"So then Mrs. Slocombe-you remember her, dear, your father's first hygienist, back when the office was on Merylow Street-said to Roddy that she would love to see you again, and when would you be back in town, and all of that, and Roddy went and told her you would be here next week, because of course the minute you said you were coming your father told absolutely everybody, I think he even rang old school chums to tell them his brilliant daughter who was already a teacher at one of the most reputable boarding schools in the north country, was going to be here for the whole week, and anyway the end of it is nothing would satisfy poor old Lil but your father would promise to bring you by the first free moment you had. I am sorry, dear, but you know how it is."

Felicity Granger stopped to take a breath and toss the salad. Hermione threw in the cucumber she had sliced. "Lil?" she asked faintly.

"Mrs. Slocombe, dear. You remember her? You used to call her Auntie Lil and play with her little Chihuahua."

"Oh. Right. Does she still have the dog?"

"Well, of course not, love, that thing would have to be thirty years old-I mean it was practically a relic when you were a little girl. Have you been listening to a word I've said?"

"Sure. Mrs. Slocombe. Dad's hygienist."

Felicity sighed and glanced in the sitting room where the other Dr. Granger sat chuckling at the television. She made a face. "I do wish he'd think about getting some exercise at nights instead of watching that bloody thing all the time. It's the new satellite dish that's got him so hypnotised. I told him it would be the death of us, that we'd both gain seventeen pounds and develop varicose veins from all that sitting. Did I tell you? I'm trying not to sit, all day long. It's much better for your veins."

"Oh. I thought that was the other way round."

"No, no, they used to say so, but I was reading this article just the other day that said the awful thing is when you stand without moving all day long-it causes the blood to pool in your veins and explodes them just like sausages, so I try to keep moving all the day, just little tiny motions is all it takes, just like I'm doing now. It's enormously beneficial," she said brightly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Mum. You did attend medical school, right?"

"That was ages ago, dear. Long before they had discovered the circulatory system."

"All right, that's not what I meant, I just-" They stopped as the front door bell rang.

"Clyde? Clyde! Get that, will you? I'll wager it's those boys again, wanting to trim the grass. You tell them we've already got someone who comes, and I don't appreciate their keeping on about it so-I'm sure they are less expensive, but Edward had been helping us out for years and it would be more than I undertake to tell him now he's not to do about in my garden, why just the other day he said I-"

"It's not the boys again." Clyde Granger stood frowning in the doorway. "It's some people for you, Hermione. Your friend Harry, I think, and someone else."

"Oh." She dropped her bell pepper and dried her hands. "All right. Thanks, Dad."

Evidently her father had not asked them to come in. She flung back the front door to the sight of Harry and Remus. Harry was flushed and obviously agitated.

"Hermione, we've got to talk to you," he said in one breath.

* * *

The three of them sat in the little room off the sitting room her father called his study. It was piled with disused exercise equipment, old magazines, and ugly furniture. Her father was a packrat, and early on in their marriage his wife had agreed to countenance his shameful habit only if he confined it to one room of the house and left her the rest. Much as she had inherited her mother's love of order, part of Hermione had always loved her father's room for the comfortable rococo warmth of its squalor. It was the place where feet could go on the furniture. She tucked her legs underneath her now in a particularly ratty brown recliner.

"Let me get this straight," she said, tugging on her nonexistent hair. "You think Sirius did make it to the buoy, touched it, and was portkeyed somewhere else."

"I'm telling you, Hermione, I saw it! The gulls that landed on it-we saw three of them-they just disappeared! Now what else would do that but a portkey? That's why we couldn't find his body-there was nothing to find!"

She frowned and glanced at Remus. He nodded. "I saw it too, Hermione. I don't know about it being a portkey, but something sure as hell was going on. The idea of a portkey does make some sense."

"All right," she said slowly. "You say he made this swim every day. So whoever turned it into a portkey knew he would be touching it. It makes sense as an object to charm-nothing close to the house that would entail risk of discovery. But who would do such a thing? That's the part that doesn't make sense to me."

"Doesn't it?" Remus cocked an eyebrow. "Sirius might have made some enemies, doing what he did for Snape last year. Stray groups of Death Eaters might have it out for him-we know the Aurors never smoked out every nest of them. It could be any number of people, but Sirius has more than a few people out there who might be happy to do him an ill turn."

"Maybe. But why not just kill him outright, if that's so? Why go to the trouble to portkey him anywhere?"

Harry shrugged. "Who knows? Look, these are questions we won't know the answers to until we find him. That's what we need to be worrying about now."

"Harry," Remus said quietly. "Even granted that our suspicions are correct, the news isn't likely to be much better. He's been gone for twelve days now. Whatever they want with him, it can't be good."

Hermione sat up suddenly, untucking her legs. She chewed on her bottom lip.

"What is it?" Harry asked, who knew That Look.

"Well, It might sound absolutely insane. I thought it was, earlier today, and I didn't think about it again. But now that you tell me this, I wonder. . ."

"What?"

"I thought I saw something earlier today. Just outside King's Cross station."

"Saw what?" Harry asked excitedly.

"A large black dog," Remus answered for her. "That's what you saw, isn't it?"

She nodded. "I know, it sounds ridiculous. It could have been any creature, some random stray. . ."

"Because solid black dogs the size of Newfoundlands are so commonly seen wandering the streets of London?"

She shot Harry a look. "Because I might have seen what I wanted to see."

He jumped up. "Let's go. If there's even a chance you saw Sirius, we've got to get back to the station now."

"No, Harry." Remus shook his head emphatically. "Our best lead to Sirius right now is that portkey. We've got to follow it and see where it leads us, before it gets shut down. Clearly whoever spelled it doesn't think shutting it down is a priority, but that might change soon. That's got to be where we start."

"Fine," Harry said with a scowl. "Hermione and I will go to the station, you go to the portkey. You'll need back-up, so why don't you go get Snape and follow it together."

"I'm not going to do that either. I'm not dragging Severus into this until we know something for certain, until we have something other than a hunch to go on. No way in hell am I doing that to him. No way. I'd like Hermione to go with me, if she would, and you can stay here in London."

"I'm not sure a teacher knows better than a fully-trained Auror how to follow a trail," he said angrily.

"This teacher does." Remus was quiet and unblinking.

Hermione stood. "I'm afraid I agree with Remus on this one, Harry. We need to do the prudent thing, even if it feels like taking two steps back."

He threw up his hands. "Whatever. You two go waste your time if you want. I'm going to be finding Sirius."

"Um. . .actually, do you think you have time to stay and have a bite to eat? My mum's going to be furious when she finds out I'm leaving with you two, so if you could maybe mollify her over her famous salad, it might make my life easier."

"Salad?" Harry's voice was shrill. "Am I the only one who recognises that time is of the essence here?"

"Oh, I don't know, Harry. Greens never come amiss."

"Unbelieveable. And you're just saying that because you've never spent time with Hermione's parents."

"Harry. You said you liked my parents."

"I do, but I'd rather face down a coven of Death Eaters than your mother in a snit. And you're about to put her in one hell of a snit."

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Shifting **

Headmaster Snape steepled his fingers and regarded the three standing before him. "Let me make sure I understand this," he said with menacing chill. "You are attempting to persuade me that Sirius Black is alive."

Lupin shook his head. "That isn't what I said, Severus. He most probably isn't. But I can tell you I don't think he drowned. I saw the same thing Harry saw. Those gulls disappeared the minute they touched that buoy. It's a pretty clear indication of a portkey, it seems to me."

"And yet," Snape continued in his most caustic voice, "when you and Professor Granger returned to the buoy to test your theory, it proved a failure."

"Well, not actually, Headmaster," Hermione said. "It doesn't really prove anything, that is. Most likely the portkey was undone the minute Harry and Remus left the cottage for London. Think of it-it was the first time the place had been deserted, and the cove unwatched, since Sirius's disappearance. Whoever set that portkey in the first place was just waiting for an opportunity."

"I see." It was the voice he used to liquefy the bowels of first years.

"There's something else," she began, hesitantly. "Something I thought I saw. Right outside King's Cross station in London, I thought I saw. . . well, I thought I saw Padfoot."

"Right. That's it." Snape pushed back his chair and stood. "Get out of my office, the lot of you."

"Severus, wait." Remus held up his hand. "Show him, Harry."

Harry stuck his hand in his pocket and drew out a small velvet pouch. He set it on Snape's desk. Snape's eyes narrowed. "What are you playing at, Lupin?"

Harry reached over and shook out the pouch. The golden compass thunked gently on the desk. "Do you know what this is, sir?"

Snape turned it over and frowned. "How did you get one of these?" he asked sharply.

"Sirius gave it to me at my investiture. It's spelled to him. Have you ever seen one work before?"

"No. I have heard of them, of course. May I?" He picked it up and examined the dully shimmering object. He flipped it over and glanced at the inscription, then studied the face some more.

"Let me demonstrate it for you." Harry pulled out his wand. "May I have your hand, sir?" Snape complied, his face suspicious. Harry took the compass and set it on the desk, resting the tip of his wand against the face. He placed Snape's hand on top of his wand hand, closed his eyes, and muttered something quietly. He opened his eyes and nodded to Snape, who removed his hand.

"Where is Severus Snape?" he said in a loud voice to the compass. The six arms began to spin madly, the zodiacal creatures leaped and pranced, the planets and stars wheeled in their orbits. After a minute the arms came to rest, the creatures swung and danced on the arms, and the entire face began to glow and pulse.

"There you go, sir. A complete set of apparating co-ordinates, pointing right here to Hogwarts."

Snape nodded. "Fascinating, I admit. But I fail to see-"

"Just a minute, sir, and I'll show you. Where is James Potter," he said, and as before the face of the compass went dark and still. He cleared his throat. "Where is Sirius Black," he said. The compass began to dance and whirl again, but this time the arms did not come to rest, but continued gyrating confusedly. The creatures ran back and forth, crashing into each other, and the stars and planets collided.

Snape frowned. "What does it mean?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know, sir. Wherever he is, for whatever reason the compass can't get a read on him. All I know is, he's not dead. Yet, anyway."

Silence fell in the office. Snape picked up the compass and watched it, an unreadable expression on his face. He ran his thumb over the face. At last he shook his head.

"This proves nothing, Potter. For all you know, the compass could be malfunctioning." He slipped it back into its pouch and drew the string. "It's a lovely object, nothing more. You're a grown man now. I would expect you to be more discerning than to fall prey to a cheap conjurer's trick. No matter how appealing the trick. Or how much you may want to believe in it." He sat back down. "Now leave me in peace. I have work to do." He did not look up as they left, except when he felt Lupin's eyes on him, watching.

When they were gone, he tossed the papers aside and shut his eyes. He hated himself for the joy that had shot through him at the sight of that compass. If there was even the barest possibility. . . he swallowed down the fierce surge of hope. They were deluded; Potter and Granger were no better than children, really, clutching at straws to avoid facing the inevitable. He was surprised at Lupin for falling in with them; such rashness was unlike him.

He rose and went to ease himself down on Albus's sofa. It was the only place he could get any rest these days. Beds were out of the question, and night time was impossible; only for brief snatches during the days, when his body could no longer take any more, had he been able to sleep at all since. . . since. He folded his arms on his chest and forced himself to say the words. Since he had killed Sirius. Come on, let's have that swim. Five galleons. You're on.

He wondered if being able to cry would make him feel any better. It seemed to work for other people. After Aurelius had died, he had cried endlessly, but always alone, curled in the corner of his room behind the armoire. Once, Sebastian had found him. Get up, you sniveling brat. You ought to stop thinking about yourself and worry about your mother. Though I doubt she'll want to see your face.

And Albus. He had not cried then, but he had felt. . . something. Something other than this terrible numbness, this literal pain in his chest, constricting his breathing. Aurelius, Albus, Sirius. The only people he had ever managed to care about. And he had killed them all. Each and every one of them. His love was like a poison, like the adder's bite in the bosom. In his stepfather's library, there had been an engraving of Cleopatra kissing the snake that would kill her. He had been fascinated with it, with the overt eroticism of it, with the mingling of love and death and desire. Little had he known it would prove prophetic.

He tried to close his eyes, but all he could see was the three of them, sitting like judges at the bench. Like the three judges at his trial. Like the three judges of the underworld. His own personal Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus. Whatever else he might have accomplished in his life, those three knew the truth. That he was a murderer, a knife that turned in the hand that tried to hold it. He wondered if he would have the courage to face them, after his death. Would they accuse him? Hurl bitter words at their destroyer? Or worse, forgive him? Oh, Sirius. Anything but that.

He ran his hands over his face and sat up. He went to the desk and pulled a glass vial out of the drawer, then a large needle with a glass syringe. He rolled up his sleeve and tied his arm off with his teeth. He filled the syringe and pushed it into the swollen vein on his inner arm. Digestive tract be damned. Some potions didn't reach maximum effectiveness unless they hit the bloodstream. He threw back his head and loosened the tourniquet. God, yes. Sleep might just be possible.

Curled on the sofa, he toyed with the idea of delaying his departure by a few days. After all, what could it hurt? Why not? Best to make sure. Lupin was hardly the sort to go chasing shadows. And then there was that compass. . . as he slipped into a heavy sleep the last thing he saw was the dancing, spinning face. Six arms, then ten, then twelve, then too many to count. The planets and stars flew off the face and began to whiz around the room. Sagittarius leaped into the air and shot an arrow into his chest, and the scorpion scuttled up his arm and into his mouth. His dreams were nightmares, but when he woke he was sorrier still to find himself in the living one.

* * *

Three days before the beginning of term, Hermione made one last trip to Hogsmeade. She had had everything ready for a week now, but she wanted to be sure of having enough stirring rods for her first day's class. Her idea was to get the first years, especially, actually making a potion in their very first class. Rather than intimidating them with an esoteric lecture that seemed to set them up for failure, she wanted to show them how fun it could be to get your hands into it. If the rest of magic was abstract and hard to understand, here was something they could taste and touch and smell.

Her step was light as she marched along the cobbled streets in the fading August light. Her latest letter from Harry was in her pocket. He had told Ron all about the portkey/buoy and the compass, and Ron had a couple of ideas about how to get portkeys to reveal their secrets after they had been undone; very hush-hush, illegal stuff that was, but there was no one like Ron for a bit of nosing around. The Ministry used portkeys all the time for official business, and there was bound to be someone there who knew how to make them do things they weren't supposed to. Harry thought they would hear from Ron by tomorrow. And she had placed telephone calls to every animal shelter in or around London, asking about her poor lost dog.

They had kept Snape updated on their progress (such as it was) at every step. He made no remark, and offered no comment other than to heap scorn on their efforts and call them deluded fools. She was just wondering how to ask Snape for some help in setting up the first day when her smallest parcel tumbled out of her arms and landed in the puddle at her feet. As she bent to pick it up, another one fell and crushed her toe.

"Damn," she muttered, lacing her shoe and collecting her scattered things. She reached for a package that had skated off the corner of the sidewalk. And froze.

Just past her hand, shadowed in the alleyway beyond, was a large black paw. With trembling fingers she grabbed her package and looked up. The dog stared back at her. In the fading light it was hard to tell, but he looked black as coal. His eyes glowed red in the dusk. He was definitely watching her. She swallowed. No one else around.

"He-hello, doggy," she said softly. The dog did not respond. "Would you like something to eat?" Slowly she got up and stepped away. The dog got up too. He was enormous, but matted and covered in mud and filth. And lean as a whippet. Starving, practically. She carefully turned and began to walk away. The dog made no motion to follow, but when she was halfway down the street she turned and saw him thirty paces behind her. He stopped when she did. She resumed walking, catching sight of him occasionally in the shop windows. He skittered into alleyways when anyone walked by.

She chewed her lip. Where could she lead him? Certainly not to Hogwarts. Somewhere safe, somewhere private. Somewhere no one else would go. She knew just the place. With a smile, she headed up the hill.

* * *

"Come in."

The door to the headmaster's office creaked open.

"Oh, for the love of Salazar. Not you two again. Haven't you enough to do to get ready for term tomorrow?"

Remus stepped forward. His face was strange. "Severus. I think you're going to want to see what Hermione has to show you."

He threw his quill down with an oath. "Very well. Get on with it."

She shook her head. "Not here. You have to come with us."

"Now why would I do that?"

She gave him a level look. "Because you know you want to."

He followed them down the passageway, trailing behind Lupin, who led them out the front doors right to the Whomping Willow. Snape curled his lip.

"Well, here we all are again. Thank you, Lupin, for the pleasant little trip down memory lane. I want no further part of this."

"Severus." Remus's voice was harsh. "Trust me. Yes, you do." He stepped into the willow behind Hermione. Snape sighed and followed, trudging through the long tunnel of dark and up the stairs to the Shrieking Shack.

"This had better be good, Professor Granger. I have just snagged the sleeve of my best robe on something unnamebly foul. What in blazes do you think you're-"

The silence that fell was thunderous.

"Hermione." Snape's voice was a whisper. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I don't know, sir. I was in Hogsmeade, and he started to follow me. I led him here."

All three of them stared at the large filthy creature curled in the corner of the room. It flicked its eyes from one to the other of them.

"You don't mean to suggest-this creature looks nothing like-"

"I know. He's a mess. But he looks remarkably like, and you know it. He won't let me get close enough to clean him up, though."

"It's true," Lupin added. "Hermione's the only one he'll let near him at all. I tried to touch him and he about took my hand off."

"Wise dog," Snape muttered. He shook his head abruptly. "I refuse to have any part in this delusional fantasy. The creature is probably rabid. You should have it put down at once."

"Go ahead," Remus challenged him. "Take out your wand and do it now, if you're so sure. You and I both know you're not sure, and you haven't been since we first came to you. Otherwise, why are you still here?'

He shot Lupin a quick glance to see in what sense he meant that. Remus raised his eyebrows.

"All right. Let's grant your hypothesis for a moment. If this is-if you are correct, why doesn't it transform, hm?" He scowled at it. "This isn't an Animagus. It's a dog. Get it some shots, Hermione, and keep it out of my office."

"Maybe he can't transform. He might be wounded in some way."

The dog watched them. They watched back.

"Then why doesn't he do something? If there's a human in there, why wouldn't it show some sign of intelligence?"

The dog lifted its lip in a snarl and emitted a low, pulsing growl.

"I think it just did."

"Shut up, Lupin." Snape crossed his arms. "Leave me out of this. And don't come running to Pomfrey when you've been torn limb from limb by this menace." He threw the trap door open and climbed down. "I expect to see you both in hall tonight. And on time, for once."

"But, Headmaster. There aren't even any students yet," she protested.

"It is the principle," he hissed, slamming the trap behind him. The dog watched him go, then rolled over and closed its eyes. She sighed.

"We'd better get Harry."

* * *

Headmaster Snape pushed open the door to his office with an irate growl. It was only the second day of classes, and apparently no faculty member was capable of making a single decision without consulting him. What the hell did he know about the maintenance of greenhouses, or the number of broomsticks to be replaced, or what the menu should be for feast days, or any number of the inconsequential things that he now realised had taken up the better part of Dumbledore's days?

He had just slid open his desk drawer and reached for the syringe when he saw the child. A scruffy haired little boy, definitely a first year, seated on the edge of the chair by the window. He smiled when he saw the headmaster's frown.

"How did you get in here? Who are you?" he demanded. The boy smiled back serenely.

"I'm sorry. Did I startle you?"

Snape slammed the desk drawer. "On your feet, boy. You will stand when a master of this school addresses you. Particularly the headmaster. I've no idea how you got in here, but unless you wish to spend your entire first term at Hogwarts serving detentions, you will leave at once. Who is your head of house?"

The boy cocked his head as though puzzled. Comprehension dawned on him. "Oh. Of course. You haven't any idea, have you?"

Snape's scowl deepened. "You will answer my question at once. And ten points will be deducted from your house for your insolence."

The boy's smile did not falter. He hopped up. He stood taller. And taller. And taller. And suddenly the boy was no longer a boy, but an old woman wrapped in a velvet cloak. Her long white hair was coiled on the top of her head, and in her hand she carried a slender silver staff. Snape sat with a sigh.

"Of course. The shapeshifter. I would have appreciated a little warning," he said irritably.

"Your letter requested discretion, yes? Mr. Weasley felt I should carry my credentials with me." She handed a sealed envelope to him with an imperious flourish. He tossed it aside.

"Yes, yes, very good. I'm sure everything is in order. I've no idea why Weasley felt it was necessary to send a shifter all the way up here on what is likely a fool's errand."

"How would you like me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"My appearance. Normally I try to adjust my appearance to suit, but you are quite difficult to get a read on."

Snape waved his hand impatiently. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Your normal appearance will be fine."

She cocked her head just as the little boy had. "I don't understand. I haven't one, as you conceive it. I'll just take a guess, then." In an instant the billowing velvet cloak dissolved, and a portly mustachioed gentleman stood before him, looking like one of Queen Victoria's ministers. He cocked his head again. "No, that isn't it either."

With a liquid gesture, the distinguished gentleman disappeared, replaced by a bosomy blond woman in a deep cut gown. She gave a little frown. "No, not quite." The blond leaned and lengthened into a dark brunette, a sleek cap of hair crowning her above a red satin Chinese gown, buttoned at her throat and slit up one thigh. "There. That's better, isn't it." Her voice was low and sultry, and her smile was a smirk.

Snape's lips narrowed. "Are you quite finished? We might as well get to business. Classes are over for the day, and no doubt Professors Granger and Lupin are where they have spent every free moment for the last four days. Come with me." He rose and headed out the door, but stopped with his hand on the knob. "And for heaven's sake, do something about your appearance. I can only imagine what the gossip would be like in hall tonight if I walk down these stairs with. . .that." He gestured vaguely.

She smiled. "But you like it, don't you?" She gave a little laugh. "All right then." In an instant the little boy was back. He grasped the headmaster's hand. Snape snatched it away.

"Stop that," he hissed, as they descended the stairs.

* * *

While the Shrieking Shack presented the same dilapidated exterior it always had, Dumbledore had seen to the refurbishing of its interior when the Order of the Phoenix had used it as its headquarters. Inside, the house was warm and bright, fitted with every convenience. The secret passageway that led under the Whomping Willow to the school had made it ideal for slipping away unseen to war councils. It had been, for all members of the Order, a home away from home, a safe house of last resort.

Hermione had stocked the skeleton kitchen in the last few days, and had been able to offer their guest some tea. She sat curled up in a faded velveteen armchair, her legs tucked under her, schoolgirl fashion, just as she had in her father's study. Lupin was perched on the windowsill watching the street below, but Harry, like Hermione, was absorbed in their bizarre visitor. He watched with fascination as the shifter sipped her tea. "So," he began, "I've read about shapeshifters, of course. But I've never actually met one-well, that I know of, anyway."

The shifter smiled. She was a little girl with blond ringlets in a white pinafore. Her legs swung over the edge of her chair. "Oh, there aren't that many of us. Most of us live out of the way of people, and it's true you might meet one and never know. A few of us do occasional work for the Ministry, especially on cases like this. Arthur Weasley is an old friend, and when he said he might have an interesting case for me, I couldn't resist."

Lupin stirred. "What did Arthur tell you?"

She turned to him for the first time. "Only that you might have an Animagus in difficulty, and I might be able to help."

Snape, standing in the corner, cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. It's the 'might' that's important. Will you be able-" he paused to frame his question.

"Will I be able to tell if it is truly an Animagus? Oh yes, that part should be easy. But before I see him, I should like to know some things." The little girl twirled a ringlet around her finger as she thought. "Has he shown any recognition of any of you? Any sign of human behaviour at all?"

Hermione shifted. "Well. Not as such. I'm pretty much the only one he lets near him, and then only to feed and water him. He acts. . . well, sick, almost."

"He needs a good veterinary, is what he needs." drawled Snape. "I don't know what Arthur was thinking, dragging you all the way to Scotland like this. If the creature bites you, Hogwarts will not be liable."

She gave a sunny smile. "I wouldn't worry about that. Now, what can you tell me about the relationship each of you has with him?"

"Well, it tried to bite Lupin, I think it ought to be put down, and Hermione wants to keep it for a pet. Potter is probably convinced it's his long lost grandmother."

She said nothing for a minute. "I meant the Animagus, but then you knew that." She hopped up from the chair. "Let's see." She turned to Harry. "You are his son, yes?"

"I-no, I'm his godson."

She frowned slightly. "Oh. How strange. All right. You are his best friend," she said, turning to Lupin. "You," she said to Hermione, "are his friend as well, though he frightens and troubles you at times. And you," she said, walking over to Snape. She looked up at him. "You are his mate. Do I have it?"

Snape choked. "I beg your pardon. I said no such thing."

"Of course not. But you hate me."

"I-whatever makes you-" Snape sputtered.

"You hate me because I make you hope."

"As far as I am concerned we are discussing a dog," he said coldly.

"Of course." She turned to the others. "Before I see him, I need to say this to all of you. Even if he is an Animagus, I may not be able to do anything for him. I can try to communicate with him, but I can't make him transform if he doesn't wish to. Then again, he might be damaged in some way, and unable to transform. There are limits to what I can do."

They nodded glumly.

"Now. Where is he?"

"This way," said Hermione. She led them down the hallway to the dark little room off the kitchen. "He won't come out of there, no matter what I do. Not after the first night."

The shifter stood in the darkened doorway for a minute. In a dim corner of the room, an enormous black muzzle raised itself to sniff the air. Two red eyes glowed at her. She took a sharp breath and frowned. Then she dropped to all fours and trotted into the room as a brindled foxhound.

The four humans watched as the foxhound submitted to the careful scrutiny of the dog. Muzzles touched, briefly. The foxhound whimpered and belly-crawled, wagging its tail. The dog gave a low growl and got up. He ambled to the other side of the room and curled up with his back to the intruder. The little hound tried again. The dog growled again, with more menace. The hound backed away and sat, watching. Then it turned and trotted out of the room, back down the hallway to the parlour.

The foxhound gave a shake and was the sleek brunette again. "Well, that's quite the Animagus you've got yourself there."

Hermione clutched Harry's hand. "Really? Are you sure? What did he say?"

"He said to leave him the hell alone and go fuck myself."

Remus smiled. "Yeah, that sounds like the right Animagus."

"And he said his name was Sirius."

Snape turned and walked out of the room. They heard the front door bang and the gravel on the walk crunch under his feet. Out the window, Remus could see him head down the street to the path leading back to Hogwarts.

"What can you do?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Well, it doesn't seem to me there is any physical difficulty, but of course he didn't want to talk much. For whatever reason, I don't think he wants to. It's hard to say. In cases like this. . . " she hesitated. "Sometimes there is some mental damage involved."

Remus nodded. "Will you try to help him?"

"Of course. I will need to stay here, as close as I can to him. I don't know how long it will take. I suppose that part is up to him."

Hermione put her arms around Harry, whose eyes were glistening with unshed tears. "We'll do whatever it takes. Anything you need, just tell us."

Harry looked from Hermione to Remus and back again. "He's alive," he whispered. "He's really and truly alive." They looked at each other for a minute, then Harry threw back his head and laughed. It was infectious, and soon they were all howling with mirth, holding each other up as they rocked with laughter, awash in blessed relief and a fierce joy at being alive. All of them. Truly and forever alive.

* * *

Snape did not slow his step on the walk back to Hogwarts until he was at the front doors. Flitwick pounced on him in the corridor, but he did not hear him. Two students tried to hex each other into oblivion as he swept by, but he did not turn. He did not pause until the great door of his office had swung shut behind him. He strode to his desk and put his hands on it, breathing hard. His knees crumpled beneath him and he sank to the floor. A strange hacking, sucking sound came from his throat, and he brought his shaking hands to his face. At last, he could breathe.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Padfoot**

The shifter spent most of every day in the little room off the kitchen. She kept the door closed, so Hermione, who sneaked away from Hogwarts whenever she could, never did know what was going on in there. Sometime in the first week Hermione began sleeping at the Shrieking Shack. Padfoot still responded only to her, and she felt responsible for him. After all, it was to her that he had come. Remus chuckled about it, but she saw the twinge of hurt that crossed his face whenever the dog growled at him or ignored him. Worst of all was when Remus had come up behind her as she stood in the doorway watching Padfoot, and placed his hand on her back. The dog had lurched to its feet, its hackles erect, and let loose a tremendous warning bark, and would have launched himself across the room had not Remus quickly ducked out of the doorway.

"Interesting," the shifter had said.

Snape came not at all. Hermione was careful to keep him updated, but he never asked for information. She noticed he seemed more aware of what was going on around him, more intent on performing his duties. Hermione no longer caught the faint odour on his robes of what she suspected were illegal potions. But he never went to the Shrieking Shack.

Hermione sighed and tapped her spoon against the side of her teacup as she sat in the dingy but comfortable kitchen. There had been no sound out of the room for several hours. What on earth were they doing in there?

The door creaked and she heard the step of the shifter. A handsome young man about her own age or a little older came and sat down at the table with her.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please, that would be lovely."

They sipped in silence.

"Well," Hermione began. "How do you think it's going?"

He ran a hand through his tousled hair. "I couldn't say, really. He talks to me, now. Mostly he just tolerates my presence, and that counts as progress."

"What-what does he say?"

"Odd, disconnected things. Dog things. Do you have any cigarettes?"

"Behind the sugar. What sort of dog things?"

"Oh, you know," he said, rummaging. He dug out a crumpled pack and sat on the windowsill to smoke, James Dean style. "Places he's been, things he's seen. He's travelled a long way to get here."

"I don't understand. Does he know where here is?"

"I don't think so. He just remembered it as the place he had to get to."

"Does he have any memory of what happened to him?"

"If he does, he doesn't talk about it. But I wouldn't let that worry you too much. Sometimes, when an Animagus goes in deep enough, he will form a separate animal consciousness that may or may not share memories with his human form. Of course, not many get that far. Your Sirius is an exception." He blew a cloud of smoke and leaned out the window.

"What's your name?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Your name. You never have said what it is."

"Oh." He smiled. "You couldn't pronounce it, lovey."

She frowned. "Then could you try something I might be able to pronounce?"

"Sure." He shrugged. "What about Mildred?"

"Mildred?"

"You like it, right?"

"Well. . . yes, actually, I do. Not that I would tell many people. It was my grandmother's name."

"Well, there you go."

"But Mildred is a woman's name. Are you. . ." she squinted at him. "What are you, precisely?"

"I'm whatever you want me to be."

"All right. If I'm going to call you Mildred, I would prefer you to look a bit more like one."

"Like this?" The handsome young man became a plump, bespectacled grandmother.

"Goodness, no. What about the way you were before."

"Ah. You mean this." The brunette in the torch singer dress was back. "Interesting."

"You say that rather a lot."

"I'm interested rather a lot."

Hermione noted that the shifter-Mildred-assumed the gestures and motions of whatever shape she inhabited with untroubled ease. The young man's shuffles were erased by the sinuous grace of the brunette without missing a beat. It was disturbing to watch, and fascinating, like watching a snake slide across the grass.

"So." Mildred resumed her seat at the table. "Tell me about the werewolf."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Tell you what?"

"Well. . ." she took a long drink of tea. "I'm interested. He's the closest thing to a shifter I've seen among humans."

"Because he's a werewolf?"

"No." She shook her head. "I couldn't explain it, really. A quality he has. It seems unlikely, but there may be shapeshifter blood in him."

"Is that possible?"

"Darling. If there's one thing a shapeshifter knows, it's that when it comes to sex, anything's possible." She met Hermione's gaze over her teacup. "Don't you have to eat in your hall tonight?"

"Not every night. I have some privileges, especially on weekends."

"Ah." She swallowed the last of her tea and pushed back her chair. "Back to work."

"Oh. Good night then."

"Good night."

Some nights, Remus would stay at the Shack with her. They would talk until far into the night, both with one ear cocked for sounds from the little room. They talked to fill the quiet, to comfort themselves, neither saying the one thing they dreaded: that Sirius would never change back, that Padfoot would be all they would ever have of him. That it would have to be enough, and they would never know why.

Harry apparated back and forth almost every day, and some nights the three of them would be there together. Mildred never came out on those nights, Hermione noticed. Sometimes, if it was just Remus with her. Almost always, if she were alone. Interesting, she thought.

* * *

"Hermione."

Mildred stuck her head around the corner of the kitchen. It was the ringleted girl.

"Is everything all right?"

"Can you get everyone here?"

"Everyone?"

"Everyone." With that, Mildred bounded back down the hall. Hermione had noted that when agitated or nervous, Mildred tended to revert to child form, the one Hermione thought of as "Millie." She hesitated to say "she," since she knew shifters had no real gender, and yet she had also noted that Mildred tended to female forms slightly more frequently than male. Whatever that meant.

She grabbed her cloak and stepped into the September twilight to summon Harry from the Three Broomsticks and Remus from Hogwarts. And Snape. She had known what Mildred meant.

Within forty-five minutes the four of them were gathered in the parlour. As before, Snape loomed in the background, but this time he said nothing. Mildred was visibly excited, practically bouncing on her hassock.

"I think he's ready," she had announced when everyone was gathered.

"Ready?" Harry edged forward eagerly. "To transform, you mean?"

She nodded. "I haven't said anything before, because I didn't want to get your hopes up. He's been transforming regularly every day, but only for brief periods. Two minutes at first, then five. It's been difficult for him to sustain it."

"Why?" Hermione asked.

"That's hard to say. I said the first day there didn't seem to be anything physically wrong with him, but now I think a magical dampener of sorts was placed on him. A spell of some kind, and he's been fighting it, but it's taken all his strength. Someone wanted him to remain in his Animagus form forever. At least, that's what he thinks."

Remus stood up. "You've seen him? As Sirius? And spoken to him?"

"Of course. What did you think we've been doing in there? Anyway, he's ready now. Come with me." She hopped up and trotted down the hall. On the way she became Mildred again, her dark Prince Valiant cap of hair shining in the slant of light from the dusty window. She gently opened the door. Padfoot was curled as before in the corner of the room, but this time he looked up as Mildred entered and thumped his tail.

She knelt beside him, caressing his thick ruff. He had been cleaned and washed, presumably by Mildred, and was unmistakably Padfoot, though still too lean. She bent to whisper in his ear and his tail thumped some more. She continued to whisper encouragement, though in what language Hermione could not hear. Some strange shapeshifter tongue, perhaps.

She caught her breath as Padfoot's fur rippled and shifted. A flash of skin, and like the surface of a kaleidoscope-not smooth and graceful as of old, but hesitatingly, clumsily-the dog became a man, naked and huddled, shaking. She felt Harry's fingers dig into her arm, heard Remus gasp beside her.

Sirius squinted up at them. "Harry?" he said hoarsely.

"Yeah. Yeah, Sirius, I'm here," and he knelt swiftly beside him.

"Remus? That you? You look. . . really awful."

He laughed and knelt at his other side. "And you've never looked better to me, mate." He gestured to Hermione. "Here's someone else who's happy to see you."

"Yeah, I know," Sirius said softly. His face broke into a slow smile. Of a sudden he scowled. "What the hell is he doing here?" he said, looking beyond her to Snape.

Snape quietly turned in the doorway and walked back to the parlour. No one said a word.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, they came to think of the Shrieking Shack as Sirius's house. Mildred stayed on, for which they were grateful. He was still weak, and seemed to derive a sort of strength from her presence. He spent the first few days after his transformation wrapped in blankets, sitting in the sun as it travelled round the parlour. Remus or Harry or Hermione was always with him, and the unspoken project of the first days was to determine how much of his memory he had lost. Remus's best guess, arrived at by what private mental calculus Hermione did not want to know, was two years. He remembered events of the summer before Harry's seventh year, but none of the following school year, or the one after that. He had no memory of having taught at Hogwarts, or Durmstrang for that matter. No memory of Snape's trial, or Albus's death. No memory of his cottage, or of what had happened to him.

Mildred was of the opinion, to which they all deferred, that it would be no help to him to have the gaps in his memory filled in by someone else. She had advised them to let him come to his memories on his own, if he could. Certain things, of course, could not be avoided. The afternoon Remus told him of Albus's death he had gone very pale and stalked upstairs to his bedroom. He had not emerged until dinner time, but he had asked no more questions about the particulars. In fact, they noted that he asked very few questions about anything. When they tried to push him for memories of what happened to him, he became angry and, Remus recognised, confused. He had quickly shut the conversation down.

Harry had wanted him to move back to the cottage, but Sirius had refused. He had no memory of any cottage, and no desire right now to leave Remus and Hermione. He enjoyed taking strolls through Hogsmeade, though Remus thought this was a bad idea. They had no idea who had kidnapped him and tried to imprison him in his Animagus form, and until they did he thought Sirius should keep close. Sirius had scoffed.

Snape was a frequent visitor to the Shack, generally arriving in the evening for a late dinner and staying until bedtime. He spoke little, and Sirius was tolerant of his presence, though clearly irritated by it. He saw no reason for Snape to intrude himself so often, though in the interest of keeping the peace he forbore to say anything about it. It was clear that Hermione in particular would not stand for disrespect to Snape. Besides, he didn't mind so much. Fighting in the war together had taught them an accommodation of each other that was courteous, if not exactly easy, and he could live with that.

One evening about a week after his transformation, Snape announced over a late night pot of tea with Sirius, Remus, and Hermione that he was going to be re-decorating the headmaster's office.

"After all," he said, "I've never really changed anything since last November, and it's time I made the place my own. Albus had the place stuffed floor to ceiling with useless trinkets. I intend to clear all that out."

"Trinkets," Sirius repeated, his hand tightening on his teacup.

"Yes, Albus was quite misguided in many of the things he was fond of."

"I couldn't agree more," Sirius muttered. "I suppose you're planning on tossing all of his things on the rubbish heap?"

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Black. Hogwarts has plenty of storage room. Every last book and bauble can be safely tucked away. I'll be starting on it tomorrow. I only mention it because it occurred to me some of the stuff might have some meaning to somebody. Come by and take whatever you want before it's all boxed up, if you like."

"Why thank you, Snape. You're the soul of generosity. And sentiment, I might add."

"Sentiment is no fit basis for running a school. Dumbledore may have been a great wizard, but he was sorely in error on that score. I intend to correct that, starting tomorrow."

Sirius got up and went to the kitchen before he said something he knew Hermione would make him pay for. Insensitive, narrow-minded, arrogant prig, he thought, swinging the kitchen door shut behind him with vigour. He'd show up with a handtruck and cart the stuff away load by load before he'd let Snape lay one greasy finger on Albus's things.

* * *

"Mildred?" Hermione raised her head off the pillow. She cracked her eye and saw the young man that she secretly called James Dean leaning down over her.

"Good God," she croaked. "What time is it?"

"It's just gone two."

"Is Sirius all right?"

"He's fine."

"What-" she sat up. "What's the matter then?"

"Nothing. Everything's fine. Would you like to have sex with me?"

"Would I-what?" She ran a hand over her face.

"Would you like to have sex with me."

"Yeah. That's what I thought you said."

Jimmy sat down on the edge of the bed. "Well?"

"Um. . . there's probably a lot about shapeshifter etiquette I don't know. We tend not to. . . say things like that."

He shrugged. "I know. But I don't like to waste time. You do want me, don't you?"

"Mildred. I don't even know who you are."

"Oh." He sat back. "It's the shifting that bothers you, then."

"I-no. Yes. I'm really not sure what conversation I'm in. Listen, it's two in the morning. Is there any way we can talk about this in the morning?"

"All right. Mind if I sleep here then?" He crawled up on the pillow beside her.

"Mildred. This is probably another of those cultural differences I was mentioning."

"I won't bother you. I can't sleep anywhere else. His dreams are too loud."

"Too-oh, for heaven's sake." She lay back down and laughed to herself, realising how much like Snape she had just sounded. Mildred smiled too.

"Think about it. I can be anything you want me to be. Or anyone. Isn't there a tiny bit of you that finds that appealing?"

"Yes. But it's not my better part."

Mildred was silent a moment. "Hm. Good answer. All right, I think I can make you happy. I can't show you who I really am because I don't have a physical identity the way you conceive it-not an embodied one. But I can show you which of my forms I like best. The one I'm most comfortable in. Would you like that?"

Hermione propped herself on her elbow. "Yes, actually."

Jimmy Dean was replaced by the shining cap of dark hair and the wide sultry eyes. "I like this one. I hadn't tried it until a few weeks ago. The sad one made me think of it."

"The sad one?"

"You call him Snape."

"Oh. Well, actually I like that look best too."

Mildred ran a finger down Hermione's arm. "Like it enough to want more?"

"Mildred. It occurs to me this is a really bad idea."

"I'm good at those." She inched closer. Her finger moved up Hermione's arm and to her chest to circle a nipple through the thin nightdress. "I'm good at a lot of things."

Hermione swallowed. It sounded very loud to her. "I'm sure you are. But I-I'm-"

Mildred's other hand was inching up the nightdress. Her finger continued to rub and tease the nipple as her hand brushed the front of her underwear. Hermione flinched and gasped. Both hands moved quickly inside her shift. Involuntarily her legs parted.

"Please let me see you."

Hermione pulled her nightdress off with shaking hands. Mildred's eyes darkened. She began to unbutton the high neck of her dress, never taking her eyes off Hermione. When she was done she slipped off her underwear. She was as long and lean and gorgeous as Hermione had imagined. Mildred began to tug at her underwear and she lifted her hips. She felt an experimental finger brush her folds, and she jumped.

"Easy, love." She scooted up to Hermione's lips. "I want to kiss you now." Slowly she lowered her lips. They were firmer, more masterful than she would have thought. Their tongues twined and coiled. Hermione felt the familiar jolt of pleasure at the soft downy upper hair of a woman's lips. Mildred lowered her groin next, and a shiver ran through her at the first brush of that soft thatch against hers. She suppressed a groan with difficulty, but Mildred caught it and pulled their hips closer, rocking slowly.

"Oh-God, Mildred-stop, I-"

"Come this way first. Grind for me, love, come on." Hermione abandoned control and pushed upward, finding the delicious friction of pubic bone to bone. She dug her fingers into Mildred's tight arse and rubbed.

"Oh-yes, that's it-oh, so wet-" Mildred was moaning, writhing in pleasure above her. Hermione clawed at her desperately, the blood pounding in her, and she came with a convulsive shudder as Mildred pushed down right on her sweet spot, rubbing herself to a powerful climax that left them trembling and panting.

"Mildred-I-"

"Oh, no. I'm just getting started." With that Mildred's mouth began to move like wet fire down her body, sucking her nipples, swirling her navel, teasing her over-stimulated body. With maddening gentleness she licked a little path around her labia, only flicking her tongue inside once. Hermione almost came off the bed.

"Please-ah-"

"Since you ask so nicely." Mildred clamped her mouth on her as though she would swallow her whole. Hermione thought if she arched any harder her back might break. The teasing sucking on her clit had her shaking and thrashing. It was never enough, never quite enough. At last she could take it no more.

"Fuck me! For God's sake just fuck me!" Instantly Mildred knotted her three middle fingers and slid them inside the slick passage. Her fingers never stopped moving, they twisted and writhed in her like nothing ever had, and the pleaure of it was unbearable, she was pumping herself up and down on those incredible fingers, coming in a honeyed flood, and in a paroxysm of delight she threw out her own hand and Mildred shoved it in her wet hungry entrance, and Hermione could not stop coming as Mildred fucked her hand and shoved those sweet fingers deeper in her, ever deeper, until at last her eyes went black and she collapsed, convulsing, clamping, spilling her juices into those waiting fingers.

Mildred lay watching her as she came back to herself. The air was heady with their scent, their thighs slick with it. Mildred's smile was that of a steady-eyed cat with a twitching tail.

"Mm. Demon woman."

"I've been called worse."

"I'll just bet."

"So. Can I sleep here now?"

Hermione laughed. "Well, sure. Since you ask so nicely."

Mildred laughed, too-a warm, throaty sound that traveled right to Hermione's toes. She brushed a kiss on her cheek and Hermione caught the scent of herself. Her clit twitched. She moved her head and took the other woman's mouth in hers, savouring the smoky flavour. They kissed lazily, and fell asleep still languidly tangled. Remus found them like that the next morning when he gently pushed back the bedroom door. He stood there for a minute, then shut the door as quietly as he had opened it. Mildred's eyes flicked open, and she thought.

* * *

Always, in his dreams, the ocean. Warm or cold, menacing or embracing, but always, always, water. And in the water there was something he was looking for, something he was supposed to find. Every night, when he closed his eyes, he knew the dream would come eventually. He knew Remus in particular thought him damaged in some way, and he hated the careful way his friend treated him. Avoiding topics as though they might be painful. As though Sirius were a patient in a mental hospital.

The truth was, he was desperate for his memories. They lurked just beneath the surface of his conscious mind, but when he tried to concentrate they evaporated, like a dream that fades in the seconds after waking. But they were always there, dancing in his peripheral vision, teasing him. And right now, sleep was as close as he could get to them. In his dreams, when he wasn't looking, they crept close to his bedside and whispered things in his ear.

He had begun to keep a journal of his dreams, figuring that the cold light of day might be able to help him make some sense of them. Most disturbing of all was the sensation of another, unknown person in his dreams. An unnamed companion, whose face he could never quite glimpse, whose voice was just beyond range. He conceived the idea that this person (or thing-it might be symbolic) was the key to recovering his memories. And yet, there seemed no pattern to the dreams in which the presence would appear. Screaming nightmares, golden meadows, wild disjointed flights-in all or any of them he would suddenly sense the presence, and it would seem natural and right, and he would forget to ask the questions he ought until he woke frustrated and panting.

And never the night went by without the water closing over his head. It was in the water that he felt the other person's presence most strongly, and in those dreams he could almost make out words-words he strained to hear but could never quite catch. He felt like a starving man forced to sit motionless as wine and honey and milk were poured on him, and not a drop could he taste. His memories were there, forever just beyond his reach.

After a night of tossing and turning and furious scribbling in the little journal, he threw back the sheets, pulled on his clothes, and headed down the stair passage for Hogwarts as soon as it was light. He was careful to make as little noise as possible. He knew Hermione, like Remus, thought he had no business showing his face outside the Shrieking Shack. With a wry smile he wondered if he ought to get her an actual dog to worry over. The way she looked at him like he was about to bite through his leash was most annoying.

There was no one about so early in the morning in the school, so he headed up the staircase to the headmaster's office. No doubt it was deserted at this hour, and with any luck he could crack the wards and have some time in there by himself before Snape discovered him. After the things he had learned in the war, there were few wards that could withstand him. He was just approaching the gargoyle cautiously, stealthily, trying to gauge what his move should be, when the stone door beyond it slid open and the staircase unfurled itself at his feet.

He stood astonished for a moment, then hesitatingly climbed the stairs and pushed open the door. There sat Snape, ensconced behind Dumbledore's desk, absorbed in some dusty seven stone tome. He did not look up.

"Good morning, Black."

"Snape. What the hell are you doing up at this hour?"

He gave a thin smile. "The work of a headmaster is continuous. But then, you wouldn't know much about work, would you? I'll wager you've never even held an actual job."

"Sod off, Snape. I'm here for Albus's things."

Snape looked him over. "What, are you going to carry them away on your back? Lest I defile them? Oh, very well, it matters little to me. Take whatever you like. But not that flammable chicken over there-I suppose I'm stuck with him."

Fawkes gave a little trill and flew across the room to the desk, where he landed with a whoosh, sending parchments scattering. Snape made a face.

"Unsanitary thing. Albus should have taught him some manners." He flipped his page. "Take as long as you like. Just don't bother me about it."

Sirius snorted and turned to the bookcase behind him. In no time he forgot Snape's presence entirely, lost in the wonder of exploring the miraculous objects and priceless treasures that Albus Dumbledore had spent a lifetime assembling. He half expected to turn a corner and find the Ark of the Covenant tucked behind a stack of books, or Hammurabi's Code lying forgotten on a shelf.

His eye was caught at last by a little thing he had never noticed before, perched on a shelf that tilted precariously to the right. It was a tiny globe, so small it fit in the palm of his hand, but it was real, or so it appeared. The oceans rippled and shone, and if you dipped a finger in them they were wet. The mountains rubbed and scraped against his finger. The forests and deserts and cities were all there, but in glorious miniature. The thing pulsed with life and movement, and all around it the blue of the water swirled with the tide. He felt Snape's eyes on him.

"Take it, if you like it. It's just another worthless bauble, as far as I'm concerned."

Sirius felt a surge of anger, but he controlled it. Instead, he draped himself in the chair in front of the desk and fixed Snape in his gaze.

"So," he began. "This has worked out nicely for you."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Snape replied frostily.

"Really. Well, Albus is dead, and whom should the board of governors decide to appoint but you. How very convenient."

"I was the deputy headmaster at the time. The choice seemed logical."

"And here you finally have the chance to put the school on the course you think it should be following. You can ban Muggle-borns and half-bloods, break out the whips and chains, and in general have your merry way. Not even McGonagall around to stop you. What did you have to do to drive her away?"

Snape shut his book with a snap. "What on earth are you saying, Black?"

Sirius shrugged. "It's just odd, is all. I've never really been told the particulars of Albus's death, you know. And here you sit," he said softly. He cocked his head. "Did you kill him, Snape?"

"Yes," he replied evenly. They watched each other for a moment. Then Snape reached for another book and returned to his reading. "It was Fawkes. I was mad with jealousy. I couldn't bear to see the two of them together anymore. And now he is mine, all mine."

Sirius narrowed his eyes and went back to the bookcase. "I know what the others don't, Snape," he said quietly after a few minutes had gone by. "Hermione and Remus and the others, they see the new and improved Snape, the reformed murderer, the tame Death Eater, the harsh but loveable taskmaster. But I know the truth," he mused. "I know what you really are. And I don't forget it."

Snape said nothing, but continued to flip through his book. Sirius soon lost himself in the mountains of books, ignoring Snape's presence. Unbelievable, what Albus had accumulated. Surely Snape would see that most of these volumes went to enrich the Hogwarts library. A few of the more valuable ones he set to one side, intending to recommend them to Madam Pince's special attention. Soon he had several stacks going, one for the general circulation, one for the restricted section, one for the climate controlled archive, and a small one for himself. Nothing too valuable in that last, but books he associated particularly with Albus, things that were clearly personal and loved.

Sorting Dumbledore's books was a daunting task, especially since the shelves were in most cases stacked three deep. He had to reach his arm in to the elbow to even get some of them out. It was while rummaging blind in the back of one of the shelves that he found it. His arm struck something hard and most un-booklike, and he drew out a battered leather case about the length of his arm.

"What the hell?" he muttered to himself. Surely it couldn't be what he thought it was. He flipped open the clips on the side of the case and caught his breath at the sight that greeted him. Reclining on the dark velvet was a violin, so old its rich finish seemed to give off light rather than reflect it. Cautiously he lifted it. Its sinuous curve was like nothing he had ever seen, its proportions flawless. He ran a finger across the strings, and then he saw the tiny maker's mark etched into the side. Joseph Guarnerius fecit Cremonae, anno 1737. IHS.

Snape looked up at the sound of the strings. "How interesting. I had wondered where that had got to."

"This-this is yours?"

"Yes. I suppose, when the house elves moved some of my things up here, they stuck them wherever they could. Terribly disorganised creatures, house elves. Heaven knows why they moved this up here-I certainly have no use for it. I don't even know why I still have it. Some sentimental impulse, I suppose. I think it must have been my grandfather's."

"Snape." He struggled to find his voice. "Do you have no idea what this is?"

Snape raised his eyebrows. "Some Muggle instrument or other. What do I care?"

"Snape. You thundering idiot. This is a Guarneri del Gesu."

"Oh. Is that good?"

"Good? Is that good? There aren't more than two or three hundred of these in existence. This-" he lifted it reverently. "This is arguably the finest violin ever made. No more beautiful music has ever been lifted to the ears of heaven than from the body of a Guarneri del Gesu. My God, man." He rose, still clutching the instrument. "I find it hard to believe even you could be so stupid."

Snape shrugged and went back to his book. "Give it a try if you like. Though why you would want to play something so old is beyond me. It's probably hopelessly out of tune."

Fumblingly, Sirius tuned the strings. He found a rosin in the case, and tightened the bow. He plucked it once or twice to test it, then stood and cradled it underneath his chin. He placed the bow gently to the strings and an Irish air filled the office, the rich warm sound of it swelling to the rafters. Fawkes went very still. When he was done he saw Snape's eyes on him. They hastily dropped to his book.

"Well," he said, "I'm glad to know it's worth something, at least. I would let you have it, but obviously now that I know its value I wouldn't want to part with it. But if you really like it, I see no reason why you shouldn't come here to play it as often as you wish. Your playing is. . . not objectionable. Certainly superior to having to listen to that." He gestured contemptuously at Fawkes, who trilled in response and dive-bombed the desk again.

Sirius caressed the instrument. He struggled to remember the things his mother had taught him. It would take some practise to get him back to what he used to be capable of. He tried again, and again and again. Airs and ditties and jigs from his mother's country, Gaelic tunes that for all their jollity were all, at their core, unbearably sad. He wandered the room as he played, Fawkes on his shoulder, and the sun was high in the sky before Snape finally rose and shut his book.

"I must head down to hall for luncheon now. Stay if you like. I'll set the wards so you may come and go as you please." He pulled on his robe and was out the door before Sirius could say a word.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Temps Perdu **

So it was that Sirius fell into a pattern of sorts. He would spend his days at the Shrieking Shack, then take the passageway to Hogwarts as soon as night fell and head to Snape's office. Sometimes Snape would not be there, but most of the time he was quietly working at his desk. He would glance up, or grunt, and go back to his papers. Sirius would pick up the Guarneri and play, and everything else would be forgotten: the irritation of Snape's presence, the frustration of his lost memories, the anger and puzzlement that he banged his head against during the day like a brick wall. In playing, he approached the dream state that he sought, in which the memories would creep closer, like wild things in a meadow if one sat quite still.

He avoided seeing people not because he paid much attention to the misgivings of Harry or Remus or Hermione, but because he had no memory of doing anything else. According to Remus, his name had been cleared, but walking abroad in daylight was a new and unsettling experience, and he found himself shying from it. But he would not slip into his canine form, not yet: not after having struggled so hard against it, when it had almost enveloped him, almost erased him. The thought of Padfoot gave him a sudden claustrophobic surge, and he knew he was not ready.

Sometimes, when his fingers were tired, or his arm ached (which happened frequently), he would set the violin down and pick through the books. Sorting through Dumbledore's library was going to take some time, and though he was making progress, he wasn't even close to halfway finished. At other times he would make desultory conversation with Snape, whose presence irritated him less and less because he did not treat him as an invalid. In fact, he largely ignored him, which suited Sirius fine. Occasionally Snape would look up and ask the name of something he had just played, grunt, and go back to his papers. Most things he did not know the names of-they were just airs he had picked up as a child from watching his uncles, stray tunes that he was pleased to find his fingers had not forgotten.

One night he was surprised to find Snape's eyes on him when he put the bow down, and he did not look away as he was used to.

"What was the name of that?" he asked gruffly.

"I don't know yet. I was writing it today in my head. It needs considerable work."

"Hmph. Play it again."

He obliged, expanding the middle section this time. He paused, lifted the bow, went back and tried it again. There. That was it. He closed his eyes and played it through again. The melody had come to him in his dream last night. It had been a dream of water, of the blue ocean in Albus's little globe, of the chilled water that he swam in nightly. In his dream, he had been swimming with Remus. They were thirteen again. The mysterious other person was there, too, and this time so close he almost saw a face. It had been a joyous dream, and though he remembered nothing that happened, the warm feeling had stayed with him, and this melody had been in his head when he woke.

Snape's expression was unreadable. He got up and searched diligently in the bookcase behind him for something while Sirius worked on the tuning. He placed the instrument on his knees and absently plucked it, squinting into the distance, listening.

"Surprising, really," he mused. "I've never been able to write anything before. It must be my Muggle blood coming through at last."

Snape looked up at that. "Muggle blood? Why so?"

"No wizard can compose anything decent. You ought to know that."

Snape settled in his chair with a frown. "You think wizards have no musical ability?"

"Not at all. I think wizards have no artistic ability whatsoever."

Snape made a choking sound. "That is the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard."

"Really." Sirius laid the violin aside. "All right. Name me a famous wizard composer."

"That is unfair and you know it. Wizards do not seek fame in the Muggle world."

"Gobshite. If you write good music, you are going to want people to play it. Think about it, Snape. What, do wizard musicians and writers stick their books and folios in an attic somewhere? And even if they did, you'd think that at Hogwarts of all places we'd have them about. Let's take a look, shall we?" He strolled to the little bookcase next to the desk. "This stuff's yours, right? Eliot. Cervantes. Shakespeare. Donne. Dante. Goethe. Goethe? You read German?"

Snape snatched the book back. "It's not mine. And I fail to see your point."

"Only because you're incredibly obtuse. Here you sit, in all your pureblooded Slytherin arrogance, thinking yourself superior to the poor wretched Muggles beyond those gates. Hah. What a pathetic joke. Muggles don't have magic, so they make art. That's their magic. What would the world be like if we stopped making our magic, hm? Not much bloody different. What would it be like if they stopped making theirs? For one thing, that bookcase of yours would be a lot emptier. No, Snape. We're the poor wretches. And I know which magic I'd rather make."

He returned to the violin and began plucking at it again. He lifted it to his shoulder, then set it down with a wince. He rubbed his arm.

"Something the matter?"

"Just this ruddy arm. Don't know what's the matter with it."

"Here. Try this." Snape reached into his drawer and pulled out a little brown vial. "This ought to help."

"Thanks." He knocked it back. The pain eased to a dull ache. "Whatever happened to me, my arm must have got banged about a good deal. I thought it might get better, but it's not much. I ought to let Poppy take a look at it."

"No," Snape said quickly. "I wouldn't do that."

Sirius regarded him narrowly. "Why not?"

"I mean to say, I don't think it's necessary. Madam Pomfrey won't be able to do anything about your arm."

"And how would you know?"

Snape sighed. "Oh, do as you like, Black. I couldn't care less, really."

Sirius continued to rub his arm in silence, watching Snape. "Snape. I hurt my arm a while ago, didn't I? Before whatever happened to me."

Snape shuffled his papers, saying nothing.

"Goddamnit Snape, answer me. Tell me how I hurt my arm." His voice was low and hard.

Snape watched him. "You were poisoned," he said at last.

Sirius absorbed this. "All right. I was poisoned. Seems I've had quite the year. What else? Was I stabbed? Shot? Hexed? Set on by wild beasts? Any more thrilling adventures I should know about?"

Snape smiled frostily. "None leap to mind."

"Who poisoned me?"

"Ah. Well, that is a difficult question."

"Just answer the bloody question, Snape."

"You did."

"I. . .what? Are you telling me I tried to poison myself?"

"Oh no. You were quite successful."

"I'm going to throttle you in just one more minute, Snape, if you don't start answering my questions. Did I or did I not try to kill myself?"

Snape considered. "I am trying to answer them. The trouble is, the answers will not be comprehensible to you, so I am trying to put them in ways you will understand."

"Oh. So this is you being helpful. Why the hell would I try to kill myself?" His voice was becoming louder, more frantic.

"Really, Black, if you insist on shouting I will end this conversation at once. There is no use your becoming so violent."

"Violent? You've not seen me violent, you arsehole."

"Oh, I beg to differ. I think attempted murder counts as violence, don't you?"

"Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. All these years and you still can't wrap your petty little mind around the fact that I WASN'T TRYING TO KILL YOU!" He was shouting now and as he watched Snape lean back in his chair and steeple his fingers it hit him in the stomach that he had just been wound up deliberately. The thought made him angrier than he had been before, and he balled his fists, breathing slow to beat back the Irish that wanted to leap across the desk and strangle the infuriating bastard.

Snape rose, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. "I think you'd better get some rest before you strain something, Black. We mustn't have someone in so delicate a way overdoing it, you know? And now, I have an appointment with Professor Granger, so if you don't mind-" He swept past Sirius and was out the door in a swish of robes.

Sirius swept the desk clean with an angry swipe of his arm. Childish, he thought, but satisfying. He stood with his hands on his hips, replaying the conversation in his head. Snape had neatly sidestepped every direct question he had placed, then lit him like a powder keg. God damn the man. With a sigh he began tossing the books and papers back on the desk, not bothering to arrange them neatly. His eye stopped at an unusual looking letter that fluttered out of one of the books. It was not parchment, but plain Muggle paper. Expensive, watermarked paper. He tried not to read it, but the words "Guarneri del Gesu" leaped out at him.

_Christie's_, the superscription read in broad blue letters.

_Dear Mr. Snape:_

Please find enclosed a receipt for your recent payment to our billing office. We have shipped the Guarneri del Gesu to the address your solicitor supplied, with the appropriate amount of insurance, which it is our pleasure to have covered. If we at Christie's can be of any future assistance in your purchases, please let us know. In the meantime, I remain,

Yours sincerely,  
Jeremy Hillyer  
Senior Auction Manager and Purchaser

Tucked in the letter was a small receipt, and when he saw the number carefully written on it he choked and sat down heavily. Holy hell. He knew enough to know the amount was not a misprint, if Snape had really purchased the thing himself. It was a cold fortune. Snape had lied to him. He had bought the violin himself, not three weeks ago. Why would he lie? What was he hiding? He looked at the letter again. Snape was up to something. He knew something about what had happened to him, or was involved in it in some way, of that Sirius was sure. What if he had planted the violin there, knowing Sirius would find it, hoping to use it as a lure? To get him here, alone, where he could finish what he had started?

He shook his head. That made no sense. In the first place, Snape could not have even known that he played the violin. No one knew that, because he had never told anyone but Jamie. And if he wanted to lure him here for nefarious purposes, why had he done nothing? What was he waiting for? In no light that he examined it could he make head or tail of it. The only certain thing was that Snape was up to something. He tucked the letter in his pocket and wandered out, lost in thought.

* * *

Hermione woke in the morning to find Sirius gone, and a note on the kitchen table saying he would be back later in the day. She crumpled it in fury and worry. She considered telling Remus what Sirius had done, but Remus had been distant the last few days. Mildred was gone, headed back south with no warning, and Harry had been in London with Ron for the last three days. Should she tell Snape? She decided against it, and collected her things for class with an oath.

Sirius did return, but not until much later that afternoon. He came back carrying several large heavy boxes, and went straight to Snape's office, which he was happy to find deserted. When Snape flung back the door an hour later he found Sirius in his shirtsleeves, knee deep in plastic wrapping and coloured wires and odd black box-like things.

"What," he exclaimed, "in the name of merciful heaven, are you doing to my office?"

Sirius shot him a grin. "Just be patient, Snape. You'll like it."

"I have no intention of being patient. Explain yourself at once, Black."

"It's music, you lumbering Neanderthal."

"Music. Don't be ridiculous. I see nothing remotely musical about this hideous mess you have created."

"Well," Sirius muttered as he bit casing off a wire with his teeth, "you would if you had ever developed a nodding acquaintance with the twentieth century."

"Black. You cannot be so stupid as to think you are going to use electricity in this castle."

"Of course not. Observe." He gathered the bundle of wires in one hand and touched them with the tip of his wand. A ripple shot through the cords and the console lit up. "As they say, presto."

Snape stood, evidently at a loss for words.

"Now. None of this, my technical genius notwithstanding, is any good without some music to listen to, so I've bought you some. You're not likely to get any decent reception out here, and I've no idea what the glamour around this place does to short-wave radio anyway, but I'm guessing nothing good. You could get the wizarding station, but it's truly atrocious and I've yet to hear anything on it that qualifies as music. Which bears out my point of yesterday, but I won't belabour my victory. So here we are: a compact musical library, from McCartney to Mendelssohn. You've got Bach-plenty of that, enough Beethoven, some Mozart-try the Jupiter symphony with the bass equalizer cranked, and you won't believe the percussion-and a quick trip through the twentieth century, mainly Beatles, Sex Pistols, the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, some other stuff I thought you might like, and some I know you'll hate but I wanted to hear. Enjoy."

"Black. I-I'm speechless. Is this-what on earth do you think you're doing here?"

He tossed the CD cases aside. "Just a little quid pro quo. Music for music. Here, let's give it a whirl, shall we?" He slipped a disc into the CD player and flipped around. Of a sudden the venerable walls shook with the opening chords of A Hard Day's Night. The headmasters in their portraits peered down in consternation.

Sirius grinned broadly. "I think you're in business, Snape." He flipped the remote control some more. "Here we go." He settled on the sofa and stretched out his legs as Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds began to play. Snape made a quick motion for the remote control.

"Change it," he said.

"Why? It's a lovely song, you'll see. Settle down."

"I said change it. Now." Sirius shrugged and settled on She Loves Me. Snape examined the blinking readout, running a suspicious finger across its smooth surface. "I suppose I could secrete this behind a bookshelf somewhere," he mused.

"Just don't go secreting the speakers. They ought to be mounted. I was thinking-what about up there, one by Waldric the Seventh and the other by Gundevalt the Hammerhead." The headmasters in question clutched their chests in a panic. Sirius levitated them up with his wand. "Or perhaps just up there, instead." He gently settled them on the tops of the bookcases.

"Anyway." He began gathering the boxes and wrapping. "I'm dead tired, and my arm aches like hell, so I'm off for now."

"Black." He pulled the desk drawer open and extracted another vial, a larger one this time. "Take this with you. It will help with that arm. Only watch your dosage; it's a rather powerful solution."

"Oh. Thanks then." He tucked the vial in his pocket. "Good night, Snape."

"Good night, Black."

* * *

The potion, as it turned out, was enormously effective, though it did rather interfere with his sleep. He must have dosed a bit too heavily that first time, and it kept him up for most of that night. Sighing, he flung back the covers and slipped on his trousers. The night was unseasonably warm, for late September, so he dispensed with a shirt.

He lit a cigarette and leaned out the window, thinking. What was he doing here, he wondered. According to Harry, he had a house of his own to go to. What the hell did he want with this one? He blew a cloud of smoke. On the other hand, he mused, what the hell did he want with a house he had no memory of? He closed his eyes and let the narcotic and nicotine wash through him. His felt as though his mind was a frayed rope, and he clung to it with one hand. He could only clap his other hand to and climb up by hanging on to the memories he did have. This place had memories. Hogwarts had memories. And in a part of himself that he was unafraid to look at, he acknowledged a terror of facing a place without memories. A place, according to Harry, next to the sea.

He stubbed out his fag on the sill and tossed it over. He glanced at the nightstand. Damn it to hell. He had forgot to bring that book with him. He glided silently down the familiar stair passage and up to Hogwarts. A deathly hush hung on the halls; even the portraits were dozing. He slipped past the gargoyle and up the spiral stairs to the office. He stopped with his hand on the knob. He could hear the thud of music.

Hell. The man really must be a vampire to be up at this hour. He paused for a moment and considered going back. He had no desire to have a conversation with Snape right now. Fuck it. He wanted the book. It was Albus's office anyway. He pushed the door open quietly and stopped, astonished.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds was blaring so loud in the darkened office he feared for his subwoofer. His eyes could make out Snape, stretched on the sofa, arms over his face, and the spent syringe on the floor beside him.

Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies, the reedy voice sang.

Just get the book and get out. He'll never know I was here. I should definitely not be seeing this anyway. He grabbed the little volume of Symbolist poetry. Bloody hell. He switched off the system with a sigh. Snape shot up from the sofa, his eyes wild.

"Black. What the hell are you-" He tried to rise and failed, kicking the syringe in the process. The sight of Snape stumbling made him unaccountably angry. He yanked him to his feet.

"Get up, you pathetic sod. What the hell am I, nothing. What the hell do you think you're doing? This is how you run Albus's school? Look at you-you're too strung out to walk. What is this shit, anyway?" He strode to the desk drawer and pulled out a clear glass bottle. He sniffed it. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This must be about a fifteen percent solution. Injectable cocaine. Very clever. What are you planning to do, kill yourself?"

Snape collapsed back on the sofa and ran his hands through his hair. "Go away, Black," he said faintly.

"Don't worry. I'm going. You're an embarrassment, Snape. An embarrassment to Hogwarts and to Albus." He tossed the bottle back into the drawer. Snape did not meet his eyes. The sight of him sitting huddled there, a dishevelled wreck, sent another, sharper surge of anger through him. He jerked him roughly up and pushed him against the wall.

"You listen to me, Snape, and you listen well, if anything can penetrate that drug-addled mind of yours right now. You may be a sorry excuse for a human being, but you're Hogwarts' headmaster now, and this shit is going to stop."

Snape said nothing, just watched him behind glassy eyes. Sirius drew his wand and pressed it against his throat. "And another thing. I know now that you had something to do with what has happened to me in the last two years. And I'm going to find it out. And when I discover the little game you're playing, I'll be back here to take it out of your hide."

He jabbed the wand more firmly under his throat. Snape did not resist. Sirius edged closer to see what was going on in those giant tar pits he had for eyes, never relaxing his wand hand. "You're hiding something, and I bloody well know it," he murmured. Snape made a sudden move, but it was not one he was prepared for. He took Black's hips and pulled them into his own in one hard swift motion. They were cock to cock for a breathless moment before Sirius gasped and shoved him back against the wall.

"You sick fuck," he hissed. "You sick perverted bastard."

He stumbled out of the room, his book forgotten. His breath came fast and hard as he raced down the stairs and through the passage, not stopping until he was through the trap door and back in his bedroom at the Shack. He shut the door, and stood gripping the windowsill for some moments. He could not acknowledge, even to himself, that he was struggling to get his own erection under control.

* * *

_Remus_, (the note read)

_I've gone to my house for a few days. I don't want any company for a bit, so please tell Harry where I'll be, if you don't mind. And tell Hermione not to worry._

S.

Remus read it through and tossed it in the grate in his office with an unreadable expression. _Sirius, I think I hate you_, he thought.

* * *

The object of Remus's irritation sat at the little table in the cottage kitchen. He had spent half an hour wandering around, exploring the house and garden, and all he could think was, I was robbed. The place was in various stages of disrepair and decay, and whoever had started the painting had not done a very good job. Must have been me, he thought.

So now he sat at the table, a piece of paper in front of him. He stared at what he had so far.

name is cleared

I buy a house

teaching at Hogwarts (Minerva retires)

Snape on trial for murder of auror

I am poisoned (?)

Albus dies

teaching at Durmstrang

back in England for summer

locked in Padfoot

memory loss

That was the chronological order, as near as he could figure it. He crossed through the last part of "I buy a house" and replaced it with "I buy a shitty house." There were the events, in black and white, as Remus had laid them out for him. But they were meaningless. He re-read the list, searching for the connection. There was something here he was missing, something that would make sense of these seemingly disconnected events. What had he been thinking and feeling when each one of them happened?

The shapeshifter had been right. The events told him nothing. It was not events he was missing; those he could get from a newspaper. It was his inner life that was gone, the breath and shape of the events. He lowered his head onto his arms and closed his eyes for a bit. What was that sound? He raised his head. The distant slap of wave on shingle. Of course. The cove.

He headed out the back door and slid down the bluff. The cove was grey-green and cold as September was easing into October. Two years gone. Why did it have to be two years when things had actually happened to him? Why not, say, his first two years in Azkaban, or any thereafter? Long years of blank nothingness. He stood at the head of the cove and looked out at the buoy in the distance. The smell of the sea was bracing, and he took it deep in his lungs. Okay, maybe not so robbed.

He thought of his dreams, of the water in them. Was this the reason? Or was it the sea of his childhood, splashing in the shallows with his cousins? He considered. The next minute he was stripping his clothes off and tossing them on the rocks. He waded into the water. Jesus fucking Christ. Gulf stream, my arse. He took a deep breath and plunged in, striking out to the middle.

He treaded water for a minute, wondering what he should do. He caught sight of the buoy, bobbing orange at the rim of the cove. To there, then. And if he kept enough to the left, he would avoid the strong current that always spilled out of the cove about this time of day. He put his head under and brought it back up, spitting water, gasping.

Keep to the left? How the hell had he known that? His heart was pounding. Slowly he stroked out to the buoy and back again, trying to relax and let the memories come, but no more did. But this-he had done this before. Clearly quite a few times. He swam around a bit more before climbing out, shivering, and threw on his clothes. His fingers shook. Something slipped into place in his mind with a little thunk. He walked slowly back up the bluff. He had no more answers than he did before, but now he knew the right questions to ask.

* * *

"Remus. Wake up."

Lupin ran a hand over his face and squinted. "Sirius? Jesus, mate, what time is it?"

"I don't know. We're going to have a talk."

"Now?" he croaked.

"Now."

"All right." Remus swung his legs over and pulled on his pyjama pants, unconcerned about his nudity. He stumbled to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, then came back and sat on the edge of the bed, facing Sirius in the chair opposite. "So, let's talk."

Sirius tossed the little piece of paper at him with the chronology of the last two years scribbled on it. "Take a look at that and tell me if it's right."

He glanced at it. "It's right enough."

"What's missing?"

Remus sighed. "Nothing, Sirius. You've got it all."

Sirius plucked it back. "And to think I'd almost forgot what a good liar you are. Is that a special werewolf talent or do you come by it all on your own?"

Remus blinked at him, but said nothing.

"Right. Now I'm going to ask you a yes or no question, and you're going to answer me. Can you do that? And if you lie to me, so help me God, I'll deck you. I've done it before, and I'll do it again if I have to."

He nodded slowly. "I'll answer any question you put to me, Sirius."

"At any point in the past two years, did I take a lover?"

Whatever question he had been expecting, that clearly wasn't it. He let out his breath slowly.

"Yes or no, Remus."

"Yes."

Sirius swallowed. "Was it you?"

Remus frowned and considered. "That's a difficult question."

Sirius rose. "I'm bloody tired of hearing that one. Answer the question, Remus."

"We fooled around a bit, yes."

Sirius stopped his pacing. "Are you telling me we fucked?"

"Yes."

"Well. That was pretty incredibly stupid of us, wasn't it?"

"You have no idea."

They were silent for a minute, then Remus spoke again.

"There's more that you should know."

Sirius shook his head. "No, actually, you've been very helpful. I think I'm starting to see it now."

"Sirius-"

"I said that's enough, Remus."

"All right."

"And thank you for being so honest. I know it goes against the grain."

Sirius slipped out the door without a backward glance.

"Fuck you, Sirius," he muttered at the closed door.

* * *

 

**Chapter Eleven: Game's End**

Sirius's sudden departure had not surprised Snape when Hermione finally informed him of it. He had not betrayed an interest one way or the other when she had mentioned it, in a way that he knew she had calculated to sound offhand but which failed entirely. He had nodded and moved on to discussing other matters. He had the weekly head of house meeting coming up, and an hour closeted with Sprout, Vector, and Lupin invariably gave him a thundering migraine. Had he not, as the only Slytherin faculty member, been of necessity the Slytherin head of house he would have made Hermione preside at the meetings. Their endless bickering was only surpassed by their united hatred of Slytherin house. Sometimes he thought that his house had done more to foster fellow-feeling at Hogwarts than any other.

This particular evening had been worse than any in recent memory. Vector was up in arms over the latest Slytherin prank, and accused him to his face of favouritism; he replied that it was impossible for him to have formed a biased opinion of an account he had in fact been sleeping through. She had not been mollified, and had launched into a tirade about the conspiracy against Ravenclaws that had only ended by Lupin's diplomacy. No question about it, the man could smooth ruffled feathers when he chose.

As he slowly climbed the stairs back to his office, he considered, not for the first time, inventing a faculty position that Draco Malfoy could occupy, simply to be able to hand the Slytherins over to someone else. Young Malfoy might be insufferable, but he had fought against Voldemort in the war, though whether out of principle or because he had a sure instinct for the winning side, he could not say. Lucius's instincts had certainly failed him at the last, he thought with a pang.

He pushed open his door and hung his robe with a sigh, not bothering with light. On any other night, after the stress of such a meeting, he would have reached for the syringe, but he had not been able to touch the stuff since the night last week that Black had happened upon him. It did not bear thinking about-not his shame at being discovered, nor the look of disgust in Black's face when, unable to resist, he had touched him. He sank heavily into an armchair and tilted his head back, willing the headache away. He rubbed his hands over his face. He could not have bungled that any more badly if he had tried.

He leaped to his feet at a clicking noise from the direction of the sofa. A tiny flame, and then the red-orange glow of a cigarette tip.

"Put your wand down, Snape. I don't bite. Well, not in this form, anyway."

"Black." He sat back down with a scowl. "You make very free with my office."

He did not reply but tossed a piece of paper into Snape's lap. "I'd like an explanation for this, if you don't mind."

Hesitantly, he unfolded the letter from Christie's, though he had known instantly what it was. He perused it, calculating quickly.

"When were you planning on telling me, Snape?"

"Telling you what?" His throat was unaccountably dry.

"That we were lovers. That's the missing piece, isn't it? That's the thing nobody will tell me."

"Well," Snape collected himself. "You can hardly blame them."

"No, I suppose not. The answer is never, isn't it? You were never going to tell me."

He searched for his face but could see only the glowing cigarette, like a dragon's mouth.

"Of course I wasn't going to," he snapped. "I may be, as you say, a 'sick perverted bastard,' but I'm not insane."

"Right." He took a long drag off the cigarette and ashed into the priceless porcelain saucer on the table. Snape's scowl deepened. "So. Are you willing to answer some questions for me, now that this little dance is over?"

"Very well. Though I fail to see what purpose it can possibly serve."

"Oh, indulge me. How long were we lovers? And if you tell me that's a difficult question, I swear I will set fire to your desk."

"I suppose I would say from about October of two years previous."

"How?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How did it happen, I mean? Was I dropped on my head? Did I fall off a broomstick?"

"Something like that. We-" he hesitated at the difficult pronoun. "One night Lupin and you and I fell in together at the Three Broomsticks. We were all a little less than sober, if memory serves. We ended up back in Lupin's rooms, and I made a foolish offer of some rather fine drugs, and the three of us. . . indulged."

He could hear the sofa creak as Black sat up. "The three of us. Indulged in what?"

"In exactly what you are thinking."

"Holy hell."

"Indeed."

"But you and I. . ." Sirius paused.

"Later on, we developed an. . . affinity."

"I see."

"Calm yourself, Black. It was just fucking."

"Good fucking, I hope."

"Oh, yes."

Sirius smoked for a minute more in silence before he stubbed it out on the saucer. "Except you're lying. It became more."

Snape hesitated. "It was fucking at first. Then it wasn't."

Sirius sat on the edge of the sofa, struggling to frame the question. "Did we. . " he began. He got up and went to the window, pulling back a corner of the heavy drape so moonlight fell across the rug. "I have no idea how to ask this question."

"The answer is yes."

Sirius carded his fingers through his hair. "Jesus."

"Relax, Black. It was a temporary condition, from which you have completely recovered."

Sirius turned and watched him. "But you haven't."

"Well." His lips twitched in a wintry smile. "I haven't had the benefit of memory loss. Unfortunately, my memories are. . . intact."

Sirius sat himself on the sill, lost in thought. "The poison I took. . . was it because of-us?"

"Do you mean, did you try to off yourself in a paroxysm of disgust at having bedded me? The truth is much less Wagnerian, I'm afraid. You took Perfidiosa to enable you to withstand Veritaserum. You testified at my trial and supplied me with an ironclad and utterly false alibi."

"Perfidiosa. You've got to be joking. I wouldn't have survived that."

"I had an idea for an antidote that proved to be partially effective."

"Partially?"

"It has neutralized the poison in your system, but your arm was damaged in the process."

"Damaged. And there's nothing that can be done."

"No."

"And the part you are omitting is that it's degenerative."

"I believe so, yes."

Sirius walked to where the Guarneri del Gesu was resting in its open case and ran a finger across its strings. He said nothing for a minute, then thought of the letter. "You must be rolling in it, Snape," he murmured.

"I am not without resources."

"Please tell me I never-"

"No, to my constant irritation."

Sirius smiled. "I'll just bet." He wandered around the office a bit. Snape watched him closely. His manner was not angry, or disgusted. Just curious.

"So I had told you that I played the violin."

"You had spoken of it, yes."

"So you put it where you knew I would find it. Why?"

Snape spread his hands in a gesture that struck Sirius as Italianate. "I entertain no illusions about turning back the clock, or the miraculous recovery of your memories. But that doesn't mean. . ." he hesitated. "That doesn't mean I could bear. . ." He found no way to continue. Traps seemed to lie in wait for him at the conclusion of every sentence.

Sirius was looking at him as though he had declared the earth to be flat, or the moon to be made of cheese. Snape tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The headache would no longer be put off.

"Black," he said hoarsely. "I will answer as many questions as you like in the morning. But right now, I have a bear of a headache, and I can't even think anymore. Would you mind terribly leaving me alone for the time being."

Sirius stood still. "Of course," he said at last. "I apologise." He excused himself quietly and stood for a moment in the door, looking back at Snape, who had leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. He started to shut the door behind him, then stopped, his hand still on the knob. He swung it back open slightly. Through the crack he could see that Snape had begun massaging the back of his neck, rolling his head around. He appeared unaware that the door had not clicked shut.

It was an unbearably private moment to witness, but Sirius found he could not look away. Snape was uttering small groans as he kneaded his neck and bent his head. Sirius let himself wonder for a moment if these were the same noises he made in sex and felt a cold lick of arousal in his belly at the thought. He had a flash of Snape stretched naked beneath him. Snape's head was tilted all the way back now, eyes closed in abandon, lips parted. Lips that I have kissed, he thought. He studied them, frowning. Fuller than he had thought, more sensual. Those lips have been wrapped around my cock. I have come in that mouth.

Sirius tried again to close the door and failed, aware that his own breath was coming hard. Fuck it. He had to know. In four seconds he had suppressed every lingering rationality. He flung the door back open and slammed it behind him, covering in three strides the distance to Snape, who leaped up, startled. He grabbed his head and kissed him brutally, shoving their lips together frantically, hungrily. It was Snape who slowed and gentled the kiss, flicking Sirius's lips open with his tongue. Sirius groaned when their tongues met, and then because he knew Snape would not do it, he pulled the other man's hips to his and rubbed his own throbbing erection against the answering hardness he found. Snape broke off with a moan.

"Now this," Sirius said when he found his breath, "I'm sure I've said before, but you are one hell of a kisser."

Snape gave a low laugh at that and licked a trail up the other man's jaw to his ear. Sirius felt his knees start to give way. Whether it was a result of his trauma or several weeks' frustration, he could not tell, but this arousal was hitting him like a freight train and he knew he was an inch from coming. Snape's voice husked in his ear.

"Tell me," he said, "what you were thinking about."

"I was thinking," he said in a strangled voice, "about fucking your mouth."

Snape's mouth left his ear and he felt his trousers being yanked down the next instant. Stop, he wanted to shout. I can't, I shouldn't, you mustn't, but then the next minute that gorgeous mouth was closed on his pulsing cock and all thought was erased in blinding pleasure. He began involuntary thrusting motions, and Snape tilted his head slightly back. Sirius was overcome with the urge to grab a fistful of hair and pound into that mouth. The sight of Snape's lips working him, of Snape's throat working to relax and take him, was too much for him. And the heat, the unbelievable sucking heat of it-he tried to keep his eyes open to watch, tried to keep his eyes on Snape's as they watched him, but he couldn't, his orgasm was overtaking him, his balls were tightening, and he had begun to shake.

"Move-I can't-I'm going to-"

Snape just sucked him harder, and he lost himself then, coming in a flood, and he could feel himself pulsing in Snape's mouth as he shot down his throat, could feel Snape struggling to swallow him, and another wave of orgasm at the thought of that hit him and he jerked and spurted until he was drained, his head thrown back, mouth open in a dry scream, and he was gripping something he didn't even know was the desk when his knees finally did give and Snape caught him as he swayed.

"All right there?" Snape's voice sounded faintly amused.

"You-oh- my God. That-how-"

"Let's give the English language a rest for a minute, shall we? I'm sure you'll be equal to it in a moment."

Sirius pulled him up for another kiss. He could feel the tautness in Snape's body, the erection jutting into him, but Snape made no move other than to kiss him slowly, almost tenderly. He reached a hand down and rubbed the erection he knew must be throbbing almost painfully in the tight trousers, and was startled when Snape moved his hand roughly away.

"Don't-I can't bear-"

"The hell you say. I want to watch you come." By instinct, he knew what Snape wanted-not the slow sensuality of his mouth, but the hard quick friction of his hand. He ripped open the trouser front and plunged his hand inside. Snape whimpered as the hand closed on his silken shaft. How delicious, he mused.

Another instinct told him that Snape would want his lips, and he brought their mouths together as his hand pumped the slippery shaft. A few rapid jerks and Snape was bucking into his hand, spraying white seed upward in a great arc.

"Sirius-oh, fuck, Sirius-"

He gave a start at the sound of his name on Snape's lips, and his cock twitched in response. Watching Snape come over his hand was possibly the hottest thing he had ever seen. Gently he guided him down, slowing his hand motions as Snape rested his head on his shoulder, panting.

When he had recovered he lifted his head and examined Sirius's eyes. They were quiet for a moment, watching each other, leaning on the desk. Sirius was the first to break the silence.

"Well. And to think that was just vertical."

Snape laughed at that, and it occurred to Sirius how much the sound suited him when not laced with mockery or bitterness. He smiled. "There was something else I wanted to ask you, but this is probably a spectacularly inappropriate time for it."

"Oh, ask away, Black."

"All right. What would I have to do to get my job back?"

Snape threw back his head and really laughed at that one. "I'm stuck with Drood until the end of this term at least," he said at last. "After that, if you're still willing to be Hogwarts' Transfiguration master, the job is yours. And I hasten to add the offer would have been made regardless of this evening's activities."

"Oh, come now. Surely 'gives a magnificent hand job' never looks bad on a CV, though 'gives great head' looks even better, I'll grant you. Do I?"

Snape smirked. "Oh, yes. As I'm sure you know."

Sirius watched their hands, resting side by side on the desk. "Snape."

"Mm."

"I'm sorry I don't remember."

Snape said nothing.

"I'm sorry, because I think that remembering would be quite something."

Snape nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"But I'm not likely ever to remember, am I." His tone was flat.

"No. Not at this point, I shouldn't think."

"Yes. Well." He met Snape's eyes. "Nothing has changed for you, has it?"

"No."

"But everything has changed for me."

"I understand that."

They regarded each other. "Was this ever easy?" he asked at last.

Snape's lip quirked. "No, Black. It was never that."

"Is it enough. . ." he trailed off.

"What?"

"Is it enough that I want to remember?"

Snape swallowed. "Yes. I think so."

Sirius nodded and stood up, arranging his clothes. "I went to my house. Did you know that?"

"Yes, Hermione mentioned it."

"Yes, I'm sure she was not best pleased. She and Remus both think I need the bloody Praetorian guard flanking me wherever I go. They-" He froze.

"Black? What is it?"

"You."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That day in the cove. You were with me, weren't you? You-you're the one in the water."

"I was with you, yes. We were swimming to the buoy." He frowned. "Are you remembering something?"

"I don't know. Yes. I think so. I-" Of a sudden the blood drained from his face. "I have to go," he said brusquely.

"Black."

Sirius turned at the door. "I'm sorry. There's something I have to do."

"I'm not trying to stop you." He got up off the desk and crossed to the violin. He snapped the case shut and handed it to Sirius. "This belongs to you."

"Earned it, have I?'

"That isn't what I-"

"I know." He ran a hand over the case. "Thank you."

"Good-bye, Black."

"Good-bye, Snape."

* * *

"Headmaster!"

Snape did not bother to slow his pace for his Potions mistress, who was trotting behind him. From the thunderous slant of her brows, he was sure she had nothing to say he wanted to hear. She was waving a slip of paper about in a most annoying fashion.

"Headmaster, wait! Our friend is gone. He left this note this morning-please, take a look at it."

He sighed, but did not stop. "Professor Granger. Can we please dispense with the roundabout locutions? 'Our friend,' indeed. I refuse to play secret agent with you."

She was jogging beside him now. "But, sir. No one knows where he is. He hasn't gone to join Harry in London, and he isn't at his house-Professor Lupin apparated there just a bit ago to check. He says the place is locked up tight as a drum. Headmaster, don't you see? Anything could have happened to him! We still have no idea who-" she lowered her voice. "We still have no idea who's behind the attempt on his life, and here he is going off again. Or perhaps it's just a ruse, and he's been kidnapped, or-" She stopped when Snape whirled on her.

"Professor Granger. Are you quite finished? The last I checked, Sirius Black" (he enunciated the name very clearly) "was a grown man, responsible for his own comings and goings. He does not require a keeper, least of all a busybody, bluestocking little chit like yourself. Now. Off with you and leave me in peace."

She blinked at him, then crumpled the note in her hand and walked resolutely back down the corridor. He saw her square her shoulders and swore to himself.

"Professor Granger."

"Yes, Headmaster."

He put his hands on his hips and scowled at her. "I-" he took a breath. "I apologise," he said through gritted teeth.

She arched an eyebrow. "Apology accepted, Headmaster." She turned and flounced across the cloister, the very picture of high dudgeon. He rolled his eyes skyward. When exactly he had ceased to terrify her, he wasn't sure, but if he ever discovered where he had made his mistake, he would right it at once.

Hermione marched straight to Lupin's office and flung the note on his desk.

"What did you do?"

"Beg pardon?" Remus was gathering his papers for class and swallowing down the last of his tea.

"To make him leave. You must have done something, said something. He's not in his right mind, you know that. The least little thing could have set him off, and Mildred warned us-"

"Who?"

She stopped. "Oh. The shapeshifter." She was aware of Remus's eyes fixed on her and tried to will away her blush. "Anyway. The point is, if we could find out what set him off we might be able to find him, and then we could-"

"Hermione. Did it occur to you he doesn't want to be found?"

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Why does everyone insist on talking about him like this is perfectly normal? It isn't at all normal, or a good idea, for him to be running off like this! He. . . he. . ." She trailed off under Lupin's mild gaze.

She looked at the note she had tossed on his desk. She picked it up with a sigh. "All right. I'm sorry." She twisted it in her hands. "I know you probably didn't do anything. It's just. . . well. I suppose all these years, I've got in the habit of worrying about somebody. Without Harry or Ron to look after," she said with a little laugh, "I'm at a bit of a loss."

He smiled slightly. "You know I love Harry and Ron, Hermione. But they're boys. We're not." He reached behind her for his robe on the peg, brushing her arm. The 'we' was not lost on her. "And another thing." He was directly in front of her now. "Have a care of the shapeshifter, Hermione. They can be dangerous."

"So can werewolves." With some pleasure, she saw her shaft hit home. "It's a little late to be getting paternal on me, Remus." She wrenched his door open and swept out it, trying to gather her thoughts for her third year Hufflepuffs, who shrank a little further into their seats when they saw Professor Granger's scowl.

"Open to page three hundred seventy, please. Mr. Trantham, if you try me today I promise it shall go the worse for you. Now, who can tell me what are the chief ingredients in a Pus Dissolving potion?"

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Padfoot's Revenge**

Sirius unfolded the newspaper on the top of the dwindling stack and leafed through it. The face. Where had he seen the face? He tried to still his mind, letting his conscious mind pick at the tune he had been working on yesterday while his subconscious worked on the problem of the face. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, glancing out the window at the growing morning light.

He had apparated back to his house after leaving Snape's office last night, knowing where he had to look. It was in talking of the water, of the swim to the buoy that fateful day that a face had appeared in his mind with startling suddenness and clarity. So vivid and yet so tenuous had it been that he had been afraid to move or think, lest the image fade like all the rest. He had known with a sharp stab of certainty that he had seen that face somewhere else, and recently, too. The face from his memory and the face from that other place had collided in his mind with a shower of sparks there in Snape's office, and he had recognised with a surge of hopefulness his first real clue.

It had been on a piece of paper somewhere, that much he had known. A picture in a magazine, or a newspaper, something, somewhere, had matched the face of his memory. He had apparated here at once and dived into the stack of old newspapers he knew was in the parlour. But he had been at this for the better part of an hour now, and none of the faces had matched his memory.

He tossed the yellowed Daily Prophet aside with a groan. Hours of scanning that prose were enough to give anyone a headache. Add to that his sleeplessness of the night before, and he was scheduled for a migraine right about lunchtime. He reached for his coffee from where he sat on the floor and took a swallow. Caffeine, that was what he needed. He hadn't forgot how to make coffee, at any rate. His mind kept threatening to wander from the task at hand. He closed his eyes and leaned against the sofa behind him.

Snape's lover. He had been Snape's lover. It had been a hunch, nothing more, but the only one that supplied all the missing motivations for everyone's behaviour, especially Snape's, in the last few weeks. He had been a fanatic for Sherlock Holmes in his youth, and Holmes's dictum had stuck in his head: When all other explanations have been tried, that which remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

However improbable. I'll bloody well say, he thought. He saw Snape's mouth closed around his cock, saw the frowning concentration of Snape's face as he neared orgasm under his hand. Sirius, he had called when he came. Snape's lover. He had been Snape's lover. God. He took another slug of coffee. That's the last time I lose my memory, he thought. Next thing you know, you wake up and you're fucking Snape.

Fucking Snape. He supposed they had done that, too. Had it been good? Had he really. . . had he really felt something for Snape? Of course, Snape had mentioned drugs. Perhaps a mind-altering substance had been involved. But the way Snape had kissed him-like nothing he had felt before, like roughened fire, shockingly familiar, possessive almost. Like no one had ever kissed him before, and not simply because it was skilful, which it undoubtedly was. Skilful. Where had Snape learned to kiss, and from whom? Interesting, the unpleasant jolt that gave him - the thought of Snape kissing someone else. Who would ever have thought that Snape. . .

Well, but maybe he just didn't remember what sex was supposed to feel like. He grinned. Maybe he should head to London before going back to Hogwarts and do some research. If memory served, there was this little place right off Knockturn Alley. Sinshoe Alley, that was it. Might even still be there. Still smiling to himself, he took another swallow of coffee and turned the page absently.

He spit out his coffee, spraying the tattered rug.

There, on the back page, was a small picture. It was the face of his memory, and it leered and grinned and nodded at him. The coffee churned in his empty stomach. Well, I'll be goddamned, he thought.

* * *

"Who's there?" The heavily jowled, bewhiskered man stepped hesitantly out the door. "Who's there, I said?" He peered out into the empty night, glancing nervously up the street.

A wand was shoved against his throat. He froze, his eyes wide, as the voice spoke softly in his ear.

"I wouldn't move, if I were you. I think you know I'll do it."

Nothing came out of the flushed throat but a whimper.

"Good. We understand each other. Now. You and I have some business to take care of, Mr. Chief Prosecutor."

* * *

"Wake up, Quindle."

The blindfold was removed from his eyes, and he blinked at the light. "Please. I'll give you anything you want. Please, don't kill me," he managed to get out before a dry sob choked him.

"Oh, for the love of Merlin. Here, drink this." A hand held a glass of water to his lips. "No one's going to kill you, Quindle. Where would be the fun in that?"

Sirius set the water glass down, considering. "You see, Morty - may I call you Morty? Or do you insist on Mortimer? Anyway, you see, if I kill you, then you don't get to spend the rest of your life rotting in Azkaban for kidnapping and attempted murder. I happen to know there's a vacancy, too." He leaned back against the table and crossed his arms. "So. You tell me what I want to know, and our business is over quickly. You make things difficult, and so do I. You see, Morty, I spent quite a few years in Azkaban, and I happen to have intimate knowledge of the way in which interrogations are conducted. I'm what you might call an expert in the field."

"Wh- Where am I?"

"Ah, now see, that's just your inexperience showing there. I'm the one that asks the questions, and you're the one that gives the answers. All of them, as many of them as I want. Where you are is no concern of yours. Now, let's begin, shall we? I'll start with something easy. I've been looking over the newspapers covering Snape's trial - the Daily Prophet was kind enough to reprint your opening arguments in their entirety, you know - and I would like to know if you write your own speeches. Do you?"

"Y-yes, of course." He licked his lips and darted his eyes nervously around the darkened room.

"Well, that figures. Ignorant, inflammatory, and full of unsavoury insinuations that have nothing to do with the charges at hand. You've a real knack for the legal profession. It's too bad you've had to resign, isn't it?"

Quindle's eyes flashed fire.

"Oh, yes, of course, you didn't have a choice, did you? Once it all came out about your 'nefarious machinations,' to quote one reporter," he said picking up a dog-eared copy of the Prophet. "'Chief Prosecutor Mortimer Quindle Suborns Perjury in Murder Trial," he read. "'Resignation Demanded.' 'Quindle Disgraced.'"

"It wasn't true," Quindle said through clenched teeth.

"Well, of course not. I've read the transcripts, now. Naturally, I wouldn't have had to go over the transcripts if I had had my own memory to consult, but you saw to that, didn't you, you little prick?"

"I was innocent!" bellowed Quindle in a fit of daring. His heavy face flushed even more, and his lips quivered.

"Oh. Innocent." Sirius's voice was quiet. "Innocent of suborning perjury, yes I'll grant you that. You never coached my testimony, that much I do know. How about innocent of framing and bringing to trial a man who had nothing to do with Dadger's murder? How about that, hm?"

"Severus Snape deserved everything he got," Quindle snarled.

"Because he escaped punishment for his betrayal of the Dark Lord? Is that it, Morty? He walked free, and Voldemort went down in flames, and with it your hope for greater glory? What was it he had promised you? Minister of Magic, was that going to be it? Or was there nothing in it for you other than the joy of bloodshed and carnage?"

Quindle pressed his lips together, refusing to answer. The back of Sirius's hand came across his face with a smack, and Quindle gave a cry of pain and astonishment as a trickle of blood oozed out the corner of his mouth.

"See, Morty, I do know how these things go," Sirius said softly.

* * *

"Wake up, Remus."

His eyes flew open to see Hermione standing over him.

"Why do people keep doing this to me?" he murmured sleepily. "What's the matter? Unless the Slytherins are eating Gryffindors in the halls, let me go back to sleep." His head dropped back on the pillow. Hermione sighed in vexation.

"Remus, wake up, I'm serious."

He lifted his head and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Not from where I'm standing."

"Oh, for pity's sake. How pathetic. Remus, aren't you the least bit worried about him?"

He rolled over and groaned. "Hermione. Why are you doing this? What is it you want here? I'm sure Sirius is fine. He probably just wanted to be able to take a piss without you examining it under a microscope."

"That was uncalled for." She yanked the covers off him, then quickly threw them back on him. "Sorry," she said, blushing. "You really ought to think about wearing pyjamas."

He rolled his eyes and swung his legs over, pulling on the pyjama bottoms puddled on the floor. "It's a male thing," he said.

"Yes, I recognised it."

"Very funny. Now who's pathetic." He rubbed his head. "Hermione, what's really going on here? Why are you so worried?"

She bit her lip and sat down on the bed. "I don't know. Honestly. I just. . . Remus, if anything happened to him. . ." She sighed again. "Sometimes it's hard to believe he's really back."

"I know." He looked at her hand resting on the covers beside his and considered taking it. "Hermione, sometimes I think he's never really come back."

"From being dead?"

"From Azkaban."

"Oh."

He leaned in a bit closer. "Why don't you lie down here for a bit and get some rest? I promise, in the morning we'll talk about tracking him down. Tomorrow's Saturday - maybe we can spend some time looking for him this weekend."

She leaned away. "Remus. What exactly. . . what are we doing? What is it, I mean, that we do?"

He thought about asking 'what do you mean?' but rejected it. He shrugged and looked away, thinking quickly. "We help each other forget, on occasion. I think."

"Right," she said dully. "Forget."

"May I ask you a question, Hermione?"

"Sure."

"Are you still in love with Harry?"

She studied the floor. "I thought so once. I don't know. I don't know if. . . maybe I've ever really loved anybody. What does it matter?"

He was silent for a bit, and appeared to be studying the same bit of floor she was. "It matters to me," he said softly.

"The man who's in love with Sirius?"

He exhaled in what could have been a sigh or a laugh. "Sirius. . . he doesn't. . . . anyway, I used to think, that when everything was said and done. . . but there was always something else, you know? Somebody else. Jamie, first. Then there was Azkaban, and I thought after that. . . and then Snape. I really. . . I really should have seen that one coming."

"Yeah."

"And I think. . ." He frowned at the window as though seeing something out it that puzzled him. "I think I stopped wanting that, from him, some time ago. I don't even remember when. Which is a lovely irony, really, because what should represent a minor victory for my health and sanity isn't at all. Now what I want is equally. . . at a remove. And I am at even more of a loss to know what to do."

"Oh." This took her aback. The thought that Remus might have fallen in love with Snape had not occurred to her. That it might be Harry he meant was even more disturbing. A hollow feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

Remus gave a short, bitter laugh. "Poor Sirius. At some point, everyone falls a little in love with him. It's the great curse of his life."

She mulled this. "And then he goes and falls in love with the one person guaranteed not to love him back," she said.

"Except it turns out, he does."

They contemplated this in silence. "Hermione. Don't even try to understand what goes on between those two. It defies comprehension."

She gave a wry smile. "You're not so very transparent yourself."

"I'm an open book."

"Written in Finno-Ugric."

He smiled back. By a fraction of an inch, his head moved closer. Her large eyes stayed steady on him.

"Remus. Are you thinking about kissing me?"

"I had thought I might try."

He ran a hand around the back of her neck and tilted her head slightly back. His lips were on hers, gentle teasing, brushing touches. She let her eyes slide shut, giving in to the sweet insistence of his lips. No, she thought. No more. She pulled back and pushed him away, holding him at arm's length.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I can't. . . I can't do that any more. I'm tired of being everybody's substitute for someone else. I'm tired of it not meaning anything. I'm just. . . tired."

His eyes were pool of sadness. "Hermione. Is that what you think I want? A substitute?"

"Isn't it? What do you want from me, other than a good fuck, and a way to forget? What do you want, Remus?" She was aware her voice was too loud, but he didn't seem to mind. He was watching her hand, clenching the rumpled sheet, and seemed to be considering his answer.

He raised his head. "You," he said softly. "Just you." The yellow in his eyes was showing in the dim light, and she thought of a wolf's steady gaze. "Is that even within the realm of possibility? Or have I managed to fuck that up as well?" he asked, his voice still even.

"Oh." She let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding. "Oh. I think. . . I think that might be. . . I think that I could do that, yes."

He reached a hand up as if to brush non-existent hair away from her face. His finger stroked the side of your face. "I like your hair," he said simply.

She laughed at that, and he smiled back. He pried her hand off the bedsheets and turned it over, studying it. "I think," he said. "I think this is something I could do, too."

This time she moved her mouth to his, and her shaking hand to his neck. He closed his eyes and let her do what she would with him, and restrained his trembling arms until he could take no more and pulled her down with him.

* * *

"Remus. Wake up."

"Oh, Christ. Not again." Remus lifted a sleep-bleared head from the mountain of duvet around him, squinting at Sirius. "It's a bloody conspiracy."

"Quit your moaning and wake up. I have something to show you. Why hello, Hermione," he said with a broad grin as a second head emerged from under the duvet. She groaned and squashed her head back on the pillow. "This is a pleasant little gathering. I trust you've both had plenty of rest?"

"Go to hell, Sirius," she muttered. "I was worried about you."

"I know, Hermione, and I've had your needs in mind. See, I've brought something just for you. I was going to go wake you up too, but here you've saved me the trouble. By the way, is the new faculty bed-sharing policy on account of rising heating costs? You can't be too careful when it comes to energy conservation," he said, his wicked grin broadening.

"Sirius. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was just getting to that, Moony. Allow me to present a friend of mine." He bent down and scooped something off the floor. Hermione sat up, forgetting to be careful of the sheet.

"Sirius. Is that. . . a dog?"

"Well, some would argue the term. It's official name is a Pomeranian." The yellowish bundle in his arms squirmed and growled.

"Why is it wearing a muzzle?"

"Oh. Well, it's going to require a bit of training. He's a little nippy right now, but he should settle down just fine, I expect." He held him up and examined him. "Or we could just get him fixed, I suppose." Instantly the dog was submissive in his arms. "Yes, I thought that might calm you down."

Remus was pulling on his trousers. "Sirius. Would you mind explaining exactly what the hell you are doing showing up in my rooms with a. . . a dog, I guess it is, at six o' clock in the morning?"

Sirius could not seem to stop grinning. "I was just getting to that. Remus, Hermione, allow me to present ex-Chief Prosecutor Quindle."

Hermione gasped. Remus stood very still. "Sirius. What. Have. You. Done."

"Relax, Moony. Nothing that anyone will ever know about, so don't worry. I remembered something a few days ago, is all. A face. Quindle's face, as it turned out. The face I remembered seeing after I was portkeyed out of the cove that day. He was the one who kidnapped me, as he's been so kind to explain in great detail. I have it all carefully written down and signed, if you care to look it over."

Remus sat back down on the bed with a thud. "Are you saying Quindle is responsible for what happened to you? Why?"

"I'll have to refer you to his signed statement for that. The short story is, Quindle was working for Voldemort all during the war, playing both sides of the fence. He's been in touch with the surviving groups of Death Eaters since the end of the war, plotting revenge on those they felt had betrayed their Lord."

"Snape," Hermione whispered.

"Right in one. He was their main target, as you can imagine. They set Pettigrew up to be captured, and he followed the plan to the letter by incriminating Snape as much as possible. The part of the plan I'm sure they hadn't filled Peter in on was that he was going to get offed before there was any danger he could ever testify, saving them all those tricky character reliability questions."

"Poor Pettigrew," Hermione said, and Remus snorted. He drew the duvet up around her shoulders.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Remus, I'm not looking. Much. So anyway," Sirius continued. "I foil the big plan by lying my arse off on the stand, which of course he can't figure out how I managed to do under Veritaserum. So his bright idea to avenge his disgrace was to kidnap me, and prove that he had been set up by sticking my recent memories in a pensieve. He made it about two years to be sure he'd get enough, I think.

"He could have gone to the Minister of Magic then and proved exactly what I'd done, and I guess I should be grateful Quindle has so few brain cells that he managed to fuck it up and obliterate my memories instead of capturing them. When he realised what he'd done," he said with a grim look at the little dog, "he tried to erase his mistake by trapping me in my Animagus form. And he almost succeeded." He gave the Pomeranian's ruff a little shake, and the dog growled menacingly. "Snip, snip," he said, scissoring his fingers, and the creature quieted.

Remus was shaking his head. "You still haven't explained, Sirius, exactly why he's in this form. And how long you plan to keep him in it."

"Oh, it's irreversible," Sirius said cheerfully. "Quite as irreversible as my memory loss. As I say, Quindle's not the brightest wizard around. Borderline squib, really. The spell he put on me should have been irreversible, but it had as many holes as his brain stem. This particular spell that I used, now, should really do the trick. Animagus or not, it traps you in animal form for the rest of your natural life."

"Sirius," breathed Remus, "are you telling me you used Vita Bestia on him?"

"Oh, is that its name?" Sirius asked breezily, leaning down to scratch the little Pom behind the ears.

"You know damn well what its name is!" Remus's voice was rising. "You also know that it's one of the Darkest curses imaginable, and that at least four or five specific laws forbid its use. You're a bloody Transfiguration master, and what you don't know about that curse isn't worth knowing." He took a deep breath and tried to calm his voice. "Exactly how are you planning on explaining this, Sirius?"

"Oh, I don't plan on explaining a thing. It's all in Quindle's letter. His suicide note, I should say. It seems the burden of his guilt was intolerable, and he just couldn't live with it anymore. Threw himself into the Ouse, poor sod. Don't expect they'll ever find his body," he said mildly, continuing his stroking of the little dog, which was shooting him murderous looks.

Hermione reached a tentative hand for the little creature, who, sensing an ally, scuttled away from Sirius and settled in her lap. "It's a shame he's such a bastard," she sighed. "He's really rather cute this way."

"Don't be so judgemental, Hermione. As far as I'm concerned, this is his chance at a new life. Redemption, of a sort. Maybe he'll find some lonely old person somewhere who needs the companionship. And who will make him wear humiliating doggie jumpers."

"You know. . ." she began, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I might just know of someone." She lifted the little pooch in her arms. "Quinnie," she asked, "how would you like to meet Auntie Lil?"

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Cigarettes and Potions**

The headmaster pursed his lips carefully, looking up from the document spread on his knees. Five pages in Quindle's careful hand, front and back.

"That's not the official version, of course. More of a rough draft. But it covers the basics, and I think it's pretty accurate," Sirius supplied. "Quindle had the courtesy to mail the final draft directly to the Minister of Magic before he met his tragic end."

Snape's eyes narrowed, but he kept his voice smooth and low. "Let me see if I have this." He tossed the letter on the desk.

"In the past five days, Professor Black, you have kidnapped the former Chief Prosecutor of Magical Justice, kept him against his will, probably abused and mistreated him, forced him to write and sign a false suicide letter, and cast an irreversible spell on him so dark it carries an automatic penalty of life imprisonment. You have violated about twenty-four laws of the Muggle world, the Ministry of Magic, and of this institution. Have I missed anything?"

Sirius considered. "No, I think that's got it."

"And you two." Snape fixed Remus and Hermione in his gaze. "Were you involved in this in any way? Did you aid or abet him, or have knowledge of his intentions that you purposefully and wilfully concealed?"

"No, sir!" Hermione protested hotly. "We were just as shocked as you, sir, when he came to us this morning and told us what he'd done."

Lupin shook his head. "We didn't know, Severus."

Snape tossed the letter aside with a sigh, feeling the beginnings of a powerful headache at the base of his neck. He rose and went over to the little dog, growling and shaking in its muzzle. When Snape got close enough, it trotted over to him and lifted its little leg over his shoe. Doggie piddle dribbled down his trouser leg onto the carpet.

"See?" said Sirius, with a grin. "It's Quindle, all right. Good boy, Quinnie."

"Black," he said through gritted teeth. "Get this thing out of here before I punt it out the window, and you right behind it. How can you have been so stupid?" He began to circle them, his voice rising. "You place this whole institution at risk by your actions, do you realise that? If this were to be discovered, do you think the Ministry would be satisfied with your punishment? This is just the opportunity the Minister has been waiting for. They would never believe you had acted alone, never. Your whole behaviour in this has been unconscionably irresponsible, from first to last. You're not fifteen anymore, Black, and you cannot run around the country carrying out your personal vendettas and endangering the well-being of us all!"

Sirius's eyes flashed. "Where the hell do you get off talking to me like that, Snape? You've no bloody right. If I had turned Quindle over to the Ministry, do you think they would have done anything? They wouldn't have done a goddamn thing, and you know it. You know perfectly well no one will ever discover what I've done, so climb off your bloody high horse, you tight-arse bastard, and accept that I've done everyone a favour."

Snape's face drained of all colour. "Professor Black." His voice was impossibly quiet. "If you ever forget yourself like that in my presence again, I will have you thrown out of this castle and onto your ear faster than you can say 'termination of contract.' You will show respect in this office, and to these robes. Do you understand me?" His voice rose and cracked like a whiplash.

Sirius's eyes were slits of hatred. "Yes," he said quietly.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Headmaster." He spat the word as though it were an obscenity. "And you can spare yourself the trouble, Headmaster," he said with exaggerated emphasis on the word. "I quit."

"You can't quit! You haven't even started yet! I terminate you!" Snape was spitting with rage.

"You can't terminate me! I refuse to accept your job offer! I'm turning you down before I even have a job to quit, you hypocritical, egomaniacal, tyrannical arsehole!" He bent down and grabbed the Pom by the scruff of the neck, ignoring its yelps of protest, and stalked out, slamming the great door behind him.

Snape's voice was a roar now, his face apoplectic. "Come back here, Black! I have not dismissed you!"

Sirius flung the door back open. "I don't require your dismissal!" he shouted, tossing the dog onto a chair. "I'll come and go out of Albus's office as I see fit, with as much right as you, and I'll be damned before I'll let you or anyone else order me about like a piss-scared first-year!"

"No, you never have learned the first thing about authority, have you, Black?" he sneered. "You would think twelve years of having it beat into you daily would have accomplished something, but apparently--"

"How dare you, you murderous, treacherous, Death Eating scum! You wrote the book on submitting to authority, didn't you? Couldn't bend over far enough for the Dark Lord, could you? What's the matter, Snape? Did you finally leave Voldemort because he started rogering Malfoy instead of you?"

"Silence, you Mudblood cur!" Snape roared, and out of the corner of his eye he caught Hermione's flinch, and some remote beachhead of rationality in his brain registered it and cursed himself.

"Cur, am I? I'm not the one who's bit every hand that ever fed me! You and I both know you ought to be rotting in Azkaban right now, and you would be too, if it weren't for me. You ought to be on your bloody knees to me, Snape! Oh wait," he said with an ugly laugh, "you have been, haven't you?"

Snape's hand smacked him across the face before he even saw it coming. The sound was very loud in the room, and for several seconds no one moved. Sirius's eyes blazed at Snape as he slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at Snape, breathing hard, before he turned on his heel and left the room without a word. The Pom scurried out of his way and huddled under Hermione's robe.

Silence thudded in the room. Hermione's eyes stayed riveted on the floor, not daring to look up. "Will that be all, Sir?" she ventured at last.

He was leaning against the desk, his back to them, struggling for control. "Yes, yes," he said, his voice tight. "Get out of here, both of you. I have. . . work to do."

Remus paused at the door and looked as though he wanted to say something, but thought better of it, closing the door behind him. He heard something loud and heavy hit the wall as he stepped away from the door.

* * *

_"Former Chief Prosecutor Quindle Commits Suicide,"_ Snape read in the Daily Prophet two mornings later.

_"Mortimer Quindle, ex-Chief Prosecutor at the Ministry of Magical Justice, apparently committed suicide last Tuesday by drowning himself in the river Ouse. Before his tragic demise, Quindle mailed a suicide letter to the Minister of Magic himself, expressing his sincere repentance for his malfeasance and wrongdoing while occupying the post of Chief Prosecutor. Mr. Quindle, as readers will remember, resigned last year under a cloud of shame following the revelation of his illegal conduct in the trial of Hogwarts Headmaster (then Deputy Headmaster) Severus Snape. Quindle had served in that position for twenty-seven years with no apparent blot on his reputation. Most shocking of all, Quindle confessed in his letter to having secret ties to the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who himself. Expert mediwizards with a background in psychiatry have speculated, however, that Mr. Quindle's mind might have been disturbed at the time of his death. No body has yet been recovered."_

Snape sighed and threw the paper on his desk with an oath.

* * *

November set in with a heavy chill and early snows at the cottage. Sirius set to finishing the caulking around the windows and doors in preparation for what was likely to be a hard winter. He didn't mind the cold so much, himself, but Harry was coming to stay, and he wanted the place to be marginally habitable. Also, he knew for a fact the slender resources in his bank account would not cover the amount of fire wood he would have to burn to keep them both from freezing to death. Not three days after he had left Hogwarts, he had had a long owl from Harry, explaining that he had quit the Aurors and wondering if he could spend some time with Sirius up at the cottage, just until he got his feet on the ground and figured out what it was he wanted to do with himself.

Sirius had raised his eyebrows at Harry's news that he was leaving the Aurors, but had offered no comment. He thought of what Jamie might have said, or Lily -- you've put so much hard work in, son, don't quit now, don't throw your life away on a whim, all the things his father had said to him when he had inexplicably quit playing Quidditch in his sixth year. He knew he would not be able to muster that sort of thing for Harry. The sum total of his wisdom was probably: stay out of prison, if you can. Have a drink, was about as paternal as he would be able to get. Don't mind if I do, he thought as he poured himself a glass of whiskey while he contemplated tackling the baseboards. The quarter-round at the bottom was rotted away in places, and it would have to be replaced if the house wasn't to leak heat like a sieve. That would mean a trip to the village, or further. Damn.

He swallowed down the whiskey and collapsed on the sofa for a minute, leafing through the day's owl post. A letter from Remus, the world's best correspondent. Never obtrusive, never pushing for a reply. Chatting about his classes, and the everyday goings-on at Hogwarts -- silly remarks exchanged at dinner, the latest student prank. Some news of Hermione and how things were going for her, but it was impossible to read between the lines there. He wondered if he ought to warn Hermione what likely was waiting for her at the end of that road. Probably she knew it already. Never any mention of Snape in Remus's letters, for which he was grateful. Sirius knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would never set foot on the grounds of Hogwarts again as long as that bastard sat behind the Headmaster's desk.

Only yesterday he had come across a shoebox of photographs, stuck in a drawer. They were all in a jumble, as though someone had rummaged through them in haste, looking for something. An old Muggle one of himself, taken some time just after Harry's birth, rested at the top. Idly he had picked through them, and his eye had glimpsed a wizard photograph, smaller than the others, only one edge peeking out. He pulled it out and saw himself, with Remus and Snape. Taken recently, by the look of it -- probably over last summer. It looked to be in the garden here at the house. He was lounging in a chair, a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head, his legs stretched out, grinning at the photographer. Remus stretched on the ground, reading a book, a cushion under his head. And Snape in the chair right next to his, sipping a drink and looking as buttoned up as he always did. In the picture, he turned to smile at Snape, who smiled back, more guardedly. He leaned across for Snape's drink and got a playful thwack on the head, knocking his hat off onto Remus, who had tossed it into the thorn bushes without glancing up. He had stared at the picture for a long time, as though it might have more secrets to reveal. Who had been the photographer? Harry? Hermione? He studied it some more, and caught Remus's sardonic half-smile at the camera as he pretended to study his book. Hermione, then. He could not take his eyes from his own laughing face at the centre of the picture. Such happiness. Almost he had not recognised himself.

When Harry finally arrived, it felt as though the house sparked to life. They spent almost no time talking about anything of consequence -- Sirius's memory loss, or Harry's decision to leave the Aurors, or anything hard or uncertain or painful. Instead, Harry told him funny little stories of everything Sirius had missed from his first two years at Hogwarts - and in the process discovered his own natural gifts as a raconteur, bringing a smile to Sirius's face when little else would. Other evenings, Sirius would pull out the Guarneri, and he would play for Harry. Harry would sit quite still, with his eyes closed, just listening. He did not ask where the violin had come from. Or they would sit at the chessboard, Harry moaning and complaining about always losing, Sirius laughing at him and trying, quietly, to teach him. It was one evening as they were sitting over the chessboard, the fire banked against the piercing wind that still rattled the panes and seeped in around them, that Harry finally asked him a question.

"Did you ever sleep with either of my parents?"

Sometime in the last few years Harry had picked up the habit of asking a question in that quiet, direct way, with unwavering gaze, as calmly as if he had just asked if there was any milk in the fridge. Sirius blinked twice.

"Ah," was all he could think to say. He took a long careful sip of his whiskey, wondering how much of the rest of his life was riding on his answer, and how much might be gained from a lie.

"I'll take that as a yes. Listen, do you want some more of that stew? I made tons for dinner, and I was going to heat myself up another bowl. D'you want any?" Harry pushed his chair back and clumped into the kitchen, rattling around for bowls. Sirius heard the fridge open, and the click of the stove.

"Harry."

Harry turned and saw his godfather in the doorway, grave-faced and watchful.

"Harry, what on earth would make you ask such a question?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Just wondering. Something the shape-shifter said made me wonder, is all. Do you want some cheese grated on that?"

"No, I do not. Harry, are you asking me-"

"No." Harry's voice was abrupt, and the cheerful, callow youth was gone. "I absolutely am not asking you anything. And I would appreciate it if we could end this conversation now."

Sirius watched him carefully stirring the stew, adjusting the flame of the burner. "Is that all I'm going to be allowed to say, then?"

"Yes." Harry wiped his hands on a dishtowel and tossed it aside. "Yes, it is. I think that's fair, don't you?"

Sirius nodded. "All right," he said slowly. "Do you want to finish our game?"

"No. I'm pretty tired. Listen, Sirius, I've got to leave in the morning for a little bit. Some things I need to do, in London and around. I think I've still got some of my things at the Dursleys, if you can believe it. I'm sure they'll be happy to see me. Maybe Dudley and I can have some beers and catch up," he said with a tight smile. "Anyway. I'll be back soon. I ought to get in bed in a bit - I want an early start."

"All right," he said again. He watched Harry start his stew in silence, then returned to the parlour and began moving the chess pieces back to their squares. Absently, he nudged them around a little, toying with playing some chess solitaire. After a while he heard the back door slam, and knew that Harry had gone down to the cove. He knew better than to wait up. He went to bed and stared at the ceiling, listening for sounds in the house that didn't come. When he rose towards dawn, there was no sign of Harry, and a hastily scrawled note on the kitchen table.

_Sirius -_

Be back soon.

H.

"All right," Sirius said aloud. "All right."

He spent the next few days hammering and banging around the cottage, finishing up the winterising in a final burst of energy. His arm ached continuously, but by rationing himself severely he had managed to stretch out the supply of potion Snape had left him. Soon, however, there would be no help for it, and he would have to figure out what to do about his arm. Perhaps he could consult a mediwizard in London next time he went down. Something told him a pain-relieving potion of that strength would not come cheap, but maybe he could work something out. Socialised medicine, he thought. That's another argument for the superiority of Muggles I forgot to make with Snape. Not that it mattered now.

On the afternoon of the fourth day after Harry's departure a large brown owl that Sirius recognised immediately as coming from the Hogwarts owlery flew in his kitchen window and landed on the table. She was listing with the weight of a brown parcel, and attached to her leg was a small scroll. While the owl, who made her contempt for his offerings plain, nibbled at a cracker, he ripped open the scroll.

_Black_, (it read)

_Thought this might be of use._

S.S.

Wrapped in the parcel were three large bottles of potion, with carefully written out instructions for its dilution, if desired. He folded the scroll and stared at the bottles. The owl was looking at him expectantly. "No answer," he told it, and she swooped out the window with a final derisive hoot.

* * *

A week after Harry had left, he woke from a dream in the middle of the night that he knew had not been a dream. He lay quite still, afraid that if he moved, the memory that had sifted down would evaporate. For it was a memory, he knew that. He had been sitting on a boulder on a hillside, looking down on what had to be the little graveyard behind the castle where Albus was buried. It was dark, but the moon was bright, and he had a distinct memory of centaurs. Centaurs, he mused. Where the hell had that come from? He had not been alone, either. The figure beside him in his memory had not been distinct, but it was clear enough to tell who it had been. No words of the conversation were coming to him, though he knew it had been edgy and difficult. Instead of fading, the memory was becoming stronger, and he had a sudden flash of exactly how the conversation had ended, and something had coiled in his belly.

"Fuck," he said, kicking back the covers. Just when he had stopped wanting to remember anything. Albus's grave, he thought with a pang of guilt. He had not yet been to visit Albus's grave. Not since. . . well, of course he had been before. But still. It was inexcusable. He ought to have done it weeks ago, instead of being so wrapped up in his personal melodrama. He swung his legs over and pulled on his trousers, not waiting for dawn.

* * *

Sirius paused at the foot of the gargoyle, eying it. It eyed him back, balefully. He waited a minute, but nothing happened. All right, he thought. No longer spelled to admit me. I suppose that's fair. He cleared his throat.

"I really need to see the headmaster."

The gargoyle did not move.

"It's extremely important that I see the headmaster immediately," he said with authority.

Nothing.

"All right, look. I've come quite a long way to see the headmaster, and I've not had a great deal of sleep. I might just get. . . violent."

The gargoyle was unmoved. He crossed his arms and glared at the impassive stone carving, which grinned back at him, its tongue curling its lips in a mocking grimace.

"Lemon drop?" he tried. Not bloody likely, but worth a go. "Ah no, wait, I've got it. Dismemberment. Impalement. Decapitation." He sighed. "No, too obvious. What about asphodel?" He paused. "Mandragora? Bezoar? Shrivelfig? Oh, bloody hell. All right, you little bugger," he growled. "I'm not above pulling out my wand and smashing you into a million pieces if you don't drop down that staircase right fucking now, you little-"

"Ex-Professor Black." Every syllable was carefully enunciated to convey maximum distaste. "If you are quite finished abusing my statuary, perhaps you would care to join me in my office?"

Sirius wheeled to see Snape standing inches behind him, his face inscrutable. The headmaster waved a hand at the gargoyle, and the staircase unfurled at their feet. It did not escape Sirius's notice that he had not spoken the password aloud. Without a word Snape headed up the staircase, not looking back to see if he was being followed. He did not turn around until they were in the office, where he set his books down on the desk with a thud. Sirius glanced at them and raised his eyebrows.

"Transfiguration texts?"

"Yes. Well. Professor Drood has decided that teaching Transfiguration is not, after all, to his taste, and has seen fit to depart in the middle of term. I am doing what I can to fill the breach."

"Snape. I took Transfiguration with you, remember? I was there. You teaching Transfiguration. . . that's like me teaching Potions. What are you thinking?"

"Why are you here, Black?"

"Right. Well, to thank you for the potion, for one thing. "

"You're welcome." Snape folded his arms and stood in front of his desk. His eyes were cold.

Sirius took a breath. "And to tell you this. There are centaurs on Albus's grave."

Snape's head shot up. "What did you say?"

"I said, there are centaurs on Albus's grave. I've been there. I apparated to Hogsmeade in the middle of the night, and I went to his grave - well, just opposite, actually. There's a little hill-"

"I know," Snape said sharply.

"I know you do. Anyway, I sat there for a while, and the damnedest thing happened. Three centaurs just came and stood on his grave, for the longest time. They just. . . stood there and watched the stars, or whatever it is that they do, and when dawn came they trotted off. And I know how bizarre this sounds, believe me, but I could swear that one of them - was watching me."

Snape was utterly silent.

"And one last thing. I realise this is a first, for me, but I did want to say: I'm sorry. It was a hell of a thing to say, what I said, and I'm sorry for it. You were right to deck me."

Snape looked down at the rug, frowning. He cleared his throat. "It's not, actually."

"Not what?"

"It's not the first time you have apologised to me."

"Oh." He considered that. "What did I apologise for, exactly?"

The ghost of a smile brushed Snape's lips. "For saying that Remus Lupin was more of a lay than I was."

Sirius barked a laugh. "Well, I've really no basis of comparison any more."

"No, I suppose not. You. . ." He sighed. "Black, I was. . . not thinking clearly when I struck you. I . . . ought not to have done that."

"Well, I suppose that's as close to the 'S' word as you're likely to get." He shifted, wondering if Snape was going to invite him to sit down at some point, or make some move in that direction himself. "Anyway. The potion was much appreciated, as I'm sure you know."

"And as I'm sure you know," Snape said with a slight arch of his brow, "it is an expensive and rather troublesome potion to brew."

"Yes," Sirius said cautiously. "I'm duly grateful, Snape."

"Hmph. Well. The point is, I can't just give it to you. It would be most improper to donate a potion of such value to someone not affiliated with Hogwarts in any way. I can't run a clinic out the back door of the castle, and if anyone else were to find out, it would look. . . improper."

Sirius frowned. "What's your point, Snape?"

"My point is, that perhaps you could find a way to. . ." He paused, and dropped his voice. "Pay off your debt."

Sirius blanched. "You bastard. Even for you-" he breathed.

"Oh for heaven's sake." Snape rose off the desk he had been leaning on, his mouth a taut line. "I am offering you your job back, you unutterable nitwit, not soliciting sexual favours. Of all the-how could you possibly-" He passed a hand over his brow. "I think you had better go now, Black, before this degenerates once again."

"Oh." It was Sirius's turn to examine the rug. "Well, that was a fairly embarrassing blunder. Right. I'll just go, then."

"See that you do. If you want this job, Black, be back here by day after tomorrow. Today is Wednesday. You can start next Monday. That will give you the weekend to settle in and prepare yourself." He snorted with something that was not quite laughter. "It beggars belief, that I would offer the same job to the same person four times in the space of two years."

"Four times?"

Snape looked startled, as though he had not meant to say that aloud. He twitched his robes about him in a nervous gesture that Sirius recognised. Form where, he wondered. "Yes. Well. Your history of employment here has been. . . tempestuous, to say the least."

"You've offered me the post twice that I know of in the last few months. I'm assuming time number one was when I was hired. What happened the second time? Did you sack me?"

"No. You left of your own accord."

"Why?"

"We had a. . . disagreement."

Sirius digested this. "About what?"

"That is hardly of importance now."

"If I'm going to be teaching here, I think it is. If there's a potential source of future discord between us, I think it best that I know it now."

"Black. Trust me, it was not anything that. . . should have anything to do with your current decision. It was. . . entirely personal."

Interesting, Sirius thought. Snape was fumbling a bit. Normally, Snape would pause before he spoke, rather than collect his thoughts as he was talking. It was odd, to hear him hesitate, and unsettling, in some indefinable way.

"Personal. Meaning having to do with our relationship." In a disinterested way, he wondered what would happen if he kept prodding at the issue. "What exactly was it that made me leave?"

Snape was chewing his lip in a way he no doubt thought was not apparent. He appeared to be weighing something. "Your belief that I was. . . indifferent."

"Indifferent. Meaning what, precisely? Because-" he smiled, and tried to stifle a laugh, "I'm having a really hard time picturing myself pursuing you. What, did I stand outside the dungeons and serenade you of a night? Send you flowers? Write poetry?" He chortled. "Excuse me, but I'm just trying to wrap my mind around the idea of suffering heartbreak over you."

"Curious," Snape said softly. "I had forgot what a bastard you can be."

That silenced him. "Yeah," he said in a voice equally quiet. "I forget that too, sometimes." He walked to the window and pulled back the heavy drape, letting in the weak morning light. The air had a grey dullness to it, like snow. "Jesus," he said, watching Hagrid stomp across the lawn, a clump of something vegetal in his hands. "Jesus. Was it always this way, with us?"

"More or less."

"Then it must have been really worth the candle, to make us go through it."

Snape's voice went bitter. "The sex was good, if that's what you mean."

"No," he said turning. "That isn't what I meant, at all." He let the drape fall. "I ought to go." He reached for one of the Transfiguration texts on the desk, the largest one. "May I? I'd like to refresh myself before I start next week, if you don't mind. I've no idea where I put those sorts of books - I haven't run across them at the cottage."

"The wash room," Snape murmured.

"Beg pardon?"

"The wash room. There's a little bookcase against the wall, on the opposite side of the table. School texts are in there."

"Oh." The idea that Snape might know more about his house than he did had not occurred to him, and made him vaguely angry. Irrationally so, he recognised. "I suppose I'll just leave these, then."

"As you wish."

"Good day then, Snape. See you day after tomorrow."

"Good day, Black."

Sirius's hand was on the door when Snape stopped him.

"And Black."

"Yes?"

"The password is 'centaur.'"

Sirius nodded, studying the doorframe, then went out quietly.

* * *

He spent the next day and a half packing his meagre belongings. He put off going into the washroom to fetch the books until the last possible moment. When he pushed the creaking door back, a strange sickly odour assaulted him. He slammed the door and sat down at the kitchen table quickly, his heart hammering.

Panic flooded him, and he felt dizzy, light-headed with it. He stared at the washroom door as if it were the entrance to his own private Chamber of Secrets. Trembling, he made himself get up and go to the door again. Slowly, he turned the knob and pushed back the ill-fitting door that creaked on its hinges. He closed his eyes and let the smell wash over him. It was the smell of potions.

He stepped hesitantly inside. A scrubbed oak table, broad and battered, was wedged in the little room between the washing machine and the window. A short, decrepit bookshelf behind it. He ran his hand over the table, feeling the splintery surface, the occasional smoothness. It was a high table. A worktable. He knew exactly what it had been used for, and who had used it.

_Why did you do that?_

Do what.

What are you on about?

You've gone soft in your old age.

Bugger off.

A good long soak.

Care to scrub my back?

You're hopeless.

Kiss me some more.

His chest was tight, his breath rapid and shallow. He had stood here - right here - and had this conversation with Snape. And there had been something else, too, something that skittered and tugged at the edges of his mind. Something about Hermione? And Remus, that was it. Yes, the Wolfsbane. They had been arguing about the Wolfsbane. But why? He couldn't remember. The window - he had tossed his cigarette out the window. He leaned over and turned the crank of the little window, his hand shaking. Snow. They had already had snow. There was no reason. . .

He tore out the washroom door, out the kitchen door, around the back of the cottage. Ridiculous. Impossible. What would it prove, anyway? Nothing. It was ludicrous. But he sank to his knees, scrabbling in the dirt and snowy sludge in the bushes beneath the window, panting, scratching, frantic. Nothing. There was nothing here. He had been foolish to think- his fingers brushed something soft and small.

He pushed his trembling fingers through the sodden leaves and pulled out a fag end, wet and half-disintegrated. He blinked and released the breath he did not know he had been holding. Inhaled and blinked again, looking at the dirty brown thing in his palm. Here it was. Here it was at last. His very own dank, rotting petite madeleine.

He curled his hand around the thing and sobbed, struggling for air. It had all been real. The memories were real. Everything - everything was real.

He clutched the fag end tighter and stood. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What did this mean? Nothing. It meant nothing. He walked slowly back around to the kitchen door, slipping the end into his pocket. Everything, he thought as he pushed the door open, heading back to the washroom. It meant everything.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Through a Glass, Darkly**

The blank parchment mocked his best efforts.

It shouldn't be that difficult, really; Drood had apparently made such a mess of the term that he could hardly do worse. End of term examinations would be necessarily adjusted to make it easier on the students. Besides, thought Sirius ruefully, exams could hardly be anything other than easy, considering they had not managed to cover much actual material in the first two-thirds of the term. For most of them it was a recoverable loss, but for the first years it was unmitigated disaster. Their first exposure to Transfigurations had been at the hands of a bumbling if well-meaning incompetent. How to walk into their class on Monday and show them that Transfigurations was not anything they had ever been taught? How to show them the wonder, the heart-stopping beauty, the sheer. . . the sheer "fuck you" to the physical laws of the universe that a perfect transfiguration could be.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the desk chair, hearing the voices of a hundred years ago. Mr. Black, please sit up. If you have anything to say to Mr. Potter, will you kindly share it with the rest of the class? The tap-tap of McGonagall's booted heel as she slowly walked the aisle, scrutinising their work, a nod here, a shake of the head there. Not bad, Miss Flatchit. You're making progress, Mr. Pettigrew. Mr. Black. . . a silently commending hand that rested momentarily on his shoulder as the skirts rustled past him. Mr. Snape, what in heaven's name do you think you are doing? A cluck of the tongue and a sigh.

He opened his eyes and looked down. The parchment was still resolutely blank. Blanker than before, if possible. He dipped his quill and wrote "Lesson Plan" in broad, elegant strokes at the top. He cocked his head at the rest of the paper to see if anything had magically appeared, then glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. In another few minutes it would actually be Monday, and still no brilliant ideas were forthcoming.

He shoved his chair back with a muttered oath and tossed the quill aside. He had recovered no memories of teaching yet, but somehow he had a hard time believing this sort of planning had been his long suit. The thing to do was to get some advice, from more seasoned teachers. That's what colleagues were there for, after all. Remus was doubtless asleep, or. . . or busy. No, he really oughtn't to bother Remus at this hour. He ought to. . . He sat back down with another oath.

Now I'm inventing reasons to go see him, he thought incredulously. Unbelievable. Black, you pathetic sod. He folded his arms on his desk and rested his head on them. Maybe if he closed his eyes for a bit. He'd hardly slept since last Wednesday, not really. He could hardly be expected to think coherently. He could hardly be expected to come up with a lesson plan for a term he hadn't begun, for students he didn't know, for a class he didn't remember teaching. Snape was bloody unreasonable to expect it of him. But even as he thought it he knew it was unjust. Snape had made it perfectly clear he had no expectations of the rest of the term other than to control the damage Drood had wrought. Snape had made it perfectly clear he had no expectations of any kind.

No expectations.

"Fuck," he muttered, and kicked his chair aside again. He was out the door before he could pause for thought, and sweeping down the passage and up the many stairs to the headmaster's office. "Centaur," he growled at the gargoyle, and the staircase unfolded at his feet. He was up it in a bound, and was talking before he had the door fully open.

"Snape, there's no way I can possibly-" He stopped.

The office was dark and empty. Not dark and filled with Snape's presence, as before, but dark and truly empty. He stood there for a moment, scowling. Somehow he had the impression Snape never left his office except for meals and the unavoidable meeting. He had never stopped to consider that Snape might have actual living quarters somewhere in this castle, and that he might actually be asleep in them. It had not occurred to him that he might find Snape gone.

A peculiar panicky sensation clutched at his chest, and he knew suddenly why he had come. Too late, he thought. He couldn't find air. It's too late. He whirled, looking wildly around the office as though Snape might be hiding behind the portieres somewhere. The Marauders' Map was in his office, but he hated the thought of going all the way back down to find it. Snape couldn't be that hard to find. Not in the dungeons, obviously - Hermione had looted and pillaged down there, and the dungeons were her sole domain now. It stood to reason that the headmaster's rooms were off his office, or near it. There was likely a door here somewhere, tucked behind an alcove or a bookcase. The stereo system in the nearest bookcase caught his eye and he smiled. A couple of CD cases were tossed carelessly on top of it, and he picked them up, examining them. He almost laughed out loud. Brahms, and the Eagles.

"Black, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"

He hastily set down the cases. One of them clattered to the floor.

"Sorry. I was just looking for you."

Snape did not look at all pleased to find him here. He was standing by the door, his hand on the knob, apparently waiting.

"I. . . are you busy?"

Snape squinted at him as though he had sprouted something out the top of his head. "Am I busy? Black, it's after midnight. I was planning on going to bed. Was there something you needed, or did you just feel the sudden urge to rifle through my things?"

"Oh come now, I wasn't really rifling. I thought you would be here, and you weren't, and the CDs just caught my eye, and-"

"The what?"

"The CDs. Oh for heaven's sake, you don't even know what they're called, do you? It stands for-"

Snape rolled his eyes. "Good night, Black." He swung the door wide behind him and gestured for Black to step through it.

Sirius frowned. "Do you sleep here?"

"What?"

"Do you sleep here? In this office, I mean. You do, don't you? Right there on that sofa. Is that because-"

"Good night, Black." Snape's voice admitted no delay now.

"Right." He sighed. "Right."

Snape stood aside for him to exit. Sirius stopped at the door. "I just wanted to-"

"Good night."

He searched Snape's eyes, but they were impossible wells of black. "Snape, is there some reason you've done your best to avoid me in the last two days? Personal considerations aside, I'm about to start a job I've not the least memory of how to do, and I would appreciate a little guidance here. Granted you find my presence distasteful, but do you think you could manage to muster a little-"

"I do not find your-"

"Are you ever going to let me finish a sentence?"

Snape's lips thinned, but he was silent.

"Thank you. I was going to say-" He stopped. "I was going to. . ."

"Black?"

The idea landed on him with a physical weight, and the air left his lungs in a rush.

"Black? Are you quite all right?"

Sirius grinned. "Snape, you're a genius. Your very presence is inspirational. You're a born teacher, and a natural leader."

The underside of Snape's eyelid twitched. "I should warn you, Black, my tolerance for your humour is at a low ebb tonight."

"Right, right. Just hear me out. I've got an idea for class tomorrow. For the first years. But I need your permission to do it. Have I got it?"

Snape crossed his arms. "Well, let's see. I find it highly unlikely you would be bothering to ask my permission were it not that I have something you need. What is it, Black?"

Sirius's grin widened. "Well, I'm considering a little exercise in the difference between imaginative projection, and the actual transfiguration of reality. . ."

Snape's eyes narrowed to slits. "Oh, no. No. Absolutely not. It would be irresponsible in the extreme to expose children of that age to-"

"Oh, come on, Snape. How better to demonstrate to them the difference between? You know it's brilliant. Come on, Snape, say yes. You know you want to."

"I want no such thing."

"Snape." He gave a cock-eyed smile and met his eyes. "Please?"

Snape's scowl was murderous. "Oh, bugger," he sighed.

* * *

"Now." Sirius paced in front of his class, robes a-billow. He had them transfixed, and he knew it. Even the Slytherins in the back row were finding it hard to maintain their air of cool indifference. "Miss Dahlgren, would you come up here please?"

The first year who so far had shown the most spirit trotted up, flashing a hesitant smile at her new Transfigurations professor. He smiled reassuringly back, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Now, Ingrid, you are under no obligation to share with anyone what it is you see. In fact, I would ask that you refrain from doing so. What you are about to see is the deepest desire of your heart. It will look in every way real-so real that you will hardly believe me when I try to tell you it is only an illusion. But illusion it is, and will remain so. Are you ready?"

She nodded eagerly, her eyes shining.

"All right then. When you're ready, step up to the Mirror."

She took a firm step forward and faced the Mirror. She gasped, then reached a trembling hand out to brush the surface of the mirror. She broke into a shy smile. Sirius caught a murmur and a snicker in the back of the classroom. Ingrid was impervious to her surroundings, lost in the mirror.

"Mr. Fane, did you have something you wanted to say?"

The boy in the back row shrugged. "I said, I don't see anything. It just looks like an old mirror to me."

"Yes, you're right."

A little frown creased the boy's face, and he glanced nervously at his neighbour.

"I said you're right, Cecil. The mirror is subjective. Can anyone tell me what subjective means?"

A hand shot up on the front row. "Yes, Mr. Wallace?"

"Having to do with the subject at hand?"

"Not exactly. Anyone else? All right then. Subjective means that it is unique to my experience. It means that I am the judge of it, and no one else." He picked up his chair and set it down in front of him with a thud. The front row jumped. "Mr. Fane, does this chair exist?"

Fane smirked at him. "What, are you stupid or something?"

A deadly hush fell, and with a swish of robes Sirius was in front of the boy's desk in an instant. He put his hands on it and bent down so they were eye to eye. "No, Mr. Fane, I am not stupid," he said in a dangerously quiet voice. "Are you?"

He bent even closer, and the boy leaned back, his eyes a bit wide. So. All bluster, then. Sirius did something then he only rarely did, not least because of its difficulty. He let himself begin to transform, but slowly, painfully slowly. He bared his teeth so the boy had a good view of the lengthening incisors, the widening maw, the glisten of saliva. He could feel the fur begin to bristle his neck, his vision begin to grey, and the sharp nails on his fingers begin to rasp the desk. When there was no more colour left in the boy's face, he pulled back, resettling into human form. It was agony to do, but the terror on young Cecil Fane's face was worth every second.

"Ten points from Slytherin for your impertinence," he murmured, wiping a tendril of drool out of the side of his mouth, and swept back down the aisle. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Fane's slump into his chair and the angry glares aimed at him from his housemates, as well as their terrified glances in his direction. No question, he had their attention now. "Now, to return to our discussion. This Mirror," he said, gesturing at Ingrid, who stood still rapt and motionless before it, "is entirely subjective. No one else can see what it is she sees. It has to do only with her. It isn't real. But this chair," he said, resting his hand on the back of it, "is objective reality. We can all see it and touch it. We have ways to measure its existence. Do you follow?"

A few nods, and much wrinkling of brows.

"When we transfigure one object into another, we are altering objective reality. For instance." He extracted his wand and flicked it lazily at the chair. Suddenly a fully decorated eight foot Christmas tree winked and shone at them. Audible gasps filled the room, and even the back row sat up straighter. "I have just altered objective reality. This Christmas tree exists in the fullest and most objective sense of the word. And that's what we do when we transfigure things. We are changing their very nature, not just the way we see them. All right, Ingrid, I think it's someone else's turn now."

He had to place a firm hand on her shoulder to wrench her away. She shook her head as though the shock of re-entering reality were not a pleasant one, and stumbled wordlessly back to her seat.

"Now, who's next?" Cecil Fane's hand shot up, and Sirius smiled. "Everyone will get a turn, I promise. Now when we transfigure a-yes, Miss Dahlgren?"

"Why isn't it real?"

"What do you mean?"

She frowned. "I mean. . . are other people the only standard of objectivity? Just because I can see the chair, and Sarah can too," she said, nodding at her friend, "why does that make it objectively real? And just because I'm the only one that can see something. . . well, does that make it not real?"

He fingered his wand, silent for a moment. "No, Ingrid, it doesn't. I'm being simplistic, perhaps overly so. If that kind of epistemology is something that interests you, see me after class and we'll discuss some further reading. This is a subject we'll be returning to, though. Deciding what is real, and what is not, is a crucial part of the study of Transfiguration. All right, everyone, calm down, I promised everyone would get a turn. Mr. Fane, up you go then."

* * *

Sirius propped his aching feet on the desk in his classroom and blew into his cup of tea. It had been the longest day of his life, and his neck felt like it might snap off at any minute. He didn't bother to rise when he heard the door creak.

"So. Was your little experiment successful?"

He cracked an eye. "Yes, in fact. Thank you for letting me have a go with it."

Snape studied him with a dubious eye. "Is there any truth to the rumour that you attempted to eat a Slytherin?"

He laughed into his tea. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you. Merely a little demonstration of transfiguration."

"I see." Snape's scepticism was evident. "Have you abided by the terms of our agreement?"

"Yes, Snape, of course I have. I've not left the Mirror unattended for a second, and no student has been allowed near it outside of class. I assume you are here to relieve me of custody?"

Snape inclined his head.

"Thank God. The bloody thing makes me nervous. By all means, get it out of here," he said with a wave of his hand.

"Frightened, Black?" Snape's smile was mildly unpleasant.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You should be. Frightened, that is."

"Oh? Make a regular practice of gazing into it, do you?"

Snape shook his head. "Not for many years. I used to, though, once upon a time." He ran a hand over the woodwork, careful to stand to one side. "Well. I shall move this back to its home, then. I am glad it was of use. Good day, Black." He pulled the cloth down over the Mirror and aimed his wand at it, levitating it a few inches above the ground. He swung the door open and ushered the Mirror through.

"Snape, wait."

"Yes?" Snape's voice was impatient.

"I-" He sighed. "Nothing. Forget it."

Snape clicked the door shut, and Sirius returned to his tea, staring into it as though it were his own personal Mirror of Erised.

* * *

Snape woke with a start at a quarter to four, his heart hammering. There was a faint smell of burning. He rose on his elbow and squinted into the dark of his office.

"Black? What the hell are you doing? And who gave you permission to smoke in my office?"

Sirius took a last drag and stubbed his cigarette out in the saucer, easing his feet off the table. "Awake, are we? Took you long enough."

Snape groaned. "Black. Why. . ." He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to wake himself. "What's the matter?" He raised his hand. "And before you answer that," he growled, "let me tell you that something had damn well better be the matter. If the greenhouses aren't on fire, if the Manticores have not launched an attack on the south wall, if the Ravenclaws have not murdered the Gryffindors in their beds, or if the Bloody Baron is not rogering Peeves in the Great Hall, then so help me, Black, I'm taking it out of your sorry hide."

Sirius was silent, just watching him. "It's too late, isn't it?"

Snape sank back and examined the ceiling. "Go to bed, Black," he said after a bit.

"Can't. We need to talk."

A longer pause this time. "Black, we have nothing to talk about."

"Goddamn it, will you stop calling me that!" He hadn't meant to skate off into anger so quickly, and he struggled to control it.

Snape sighed and sat up, pulling his blanket around him. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice heavy with a dead calm. "I'm sorry. I simply can't do this."

Sirius digested this, feeling something settle on his chest. "I see."

"No, I doubt you do. I am happy for you, Black, truly I am, that your memories are evidently beginning to return, however vaguely. And I understand that you wish to explore all-" He stopped suddenly, and buried his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he said again, not lifting his head. "I am simply - I cannot - I am sorry."

Sirius studied his hands. One shot at this, he thought. One shot. All right then. "I hate you," he said.

Snape did not move.

"When I saw you in the doorway at the Shrieking Shack - that day with the shifter- I thought, what the hell is he doing here? And all I could think was, I hate him. It was. . . surprising, all that emotion, after not having felt any emotion for so long. I. . ." He struggled not to lose the thread. "I didn't know what it meant, to feel such strong emotion around you, when I couldn't muster up any for anything else, or for anyone else, really. I just didn't know. And then, when I did figure it out. . . I couldn't believe it, not really. It was like reading something in a book."

Snape raised his head.

"Like reading something in a book," he repeated. "But then I found this." He dug in his pocket and pulled out the rotten fag end that had resided there the past few days. "It told me. . . well, it told me things, things I could-not remember exactly. It's more like remembering a symphony, and afterwards you couldn't hum a bar of it, couldn't remember a single note, actually, but you know - you know it was wonderful and all you can think is, you'd give anything to hear it again. Like music you're always just on the edge of hearing." He set the bit of cigarette on the table between them. "Please tell me it's not too late, Snape. Please tell me I haven't done or said something that will have made this-" he gestured vaguely between them - "whatever it is, an impossibility forever. I know-I know you have no reason to trust that I know what I'm talking about, or that I have any idea. . . because now I know - I really know - what all that hate was about. Is about. What. . ." He carded his hands through his hair. "I'm not doing so well here."

"No. You're doing fine."

He dropped his hands. "Really?"

"Really. Keep on."

"Oh. All right. Well. . . that was it, actually."

Snape raised a brow. "That was it?"

"Well. . . yes."

Snape appeared to be considering the bookcase. "Tell me, Black. Did you look in the Mirror today?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"No, I doubt you do," said Sirius in pitch-perfect Snapian. He got up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Black, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Getting undressed. Or at least a little more comfortable," he said, starting on the cuffs.

"Why on earth?"

"Because I'm going to fuck you into that sofa. I'm going to fuck you until we both come blood. I'm going to make you groan, and scream, and thrash, and beg me for more. This time, I'm going to suck that gorgeous cock of yours so hard I choke on your come, and then I'm going to fuck you until we both lose our memories of everything else but what's happening right here, right now. Right there on that sofa." He tossed his shirt on the chair behind him and started on his trousers.

"So." Snape arched a brow at him, but did not, Sirius noticed, stop watching his hands. "That's your little fantasy, is it?"

"That's right."

"Well, it's not going to happen."

Sirius stopped. "And why is that?"

"Because." Snape rose from the sofa and shucked off the blanket. He padded over to the enormous desk and swept it clean with both hands. Fawkes raised a lazy eyelid at the clatter and went back to sleep. "Mine first."

Sirius threw back his head and laughed, and Snape gave him a wry smile, and at that smile Sirius felt something cold and tight plummet from his chest to his belly and down. He took in the sight of Snape wearing nothing but black silk pyjama bottoms that rode low on his hips and left little to the imagination. Snape watched him watching.

"Tell me about the Mirror," he murmured, advancing on Sirius now.

"It's - well, it's pretty much what you'd expect."

"Oh?" Snape leaned his head in and gently grazed Sirius's neck with a swipe of a stubbled jaw. The muscles on the back of Sirius's knees gave.

"You-oh-that, that's not fair."

"Hmm? And why is that?" Snape was starting on the other side of his neck now, gentle nips and brushes that were careful to rasp stubble across his skin.

"Because you-know all my-oh God," he moaned.

"Sirius." Snape pulled back and sought his eyes. "Tell me about the Mirror."

"I - it's. . . I saw you."

"Really."

"Yes."

Snape frowned. "What was I doing?"

Sirius paused. "It isn't enough to know you were there?"

"Not really, no."

"Fine. All right. You were. . . we were. . . well, it was what you would call an intimate moment."

"I see." Snape blinked at him. "So fucking me is the deepest desire of your heart."

"Evidently so."

"Well, far be it from me to keep you from your deepest desire." Snape turned to the sofa and stepped out of his pyjama bottoms. "Get your clothes off, Black." His eyes were flinty and blank. Sirius frowned.

"I think you've mis-"

"You want to fuck, let's fuck, Black. Let's get what we both want here. Come on, get out of those trousers." He yanked roughly at the half-open trouser front. Sirius knocked away his hand.

"It wasn't like that," he said through gritted teeth. "What I saw, it wasn't like that. Don't be an idiot, Severus. You know I didn't come here tonight because I wanted to get laid. I think you know there are any number of places I could have gone to get that."

"Oh?" Snape cocked an amused brow. "Let's hear it, then. That list of options might be thinning rapidly. Lupin, who I'm assuming is option number one, is otherwise occupied these days, with someone who might once have been option number four or five. Answer me this, Black. Even granted it actually was me you saw in that Mirror, and I'm not saying it was - for that matter, it could have been any number of dark-haired men, your dear departed best mate Potter among-"

"Shut up."

"As you wish. But I know something you don't, Black."

"And what's that?"

Snape turned and sat down heavily on the sofa. "The mirror lies."

Sirius looked around the room, thinking. "You think I don't know that? You think I need the little speech about the deepest desire of your heart not always being the truest or best desire of your heart? Hell, Snape, I don't know if what we're doing is true, or good, or any other noble and utterly meaningless adjective you want to assign it. And I can tell you I'm not here tonight because of what I saw in the Mirror, which wasn't, by the way, what you're imagining. It was-you were-" he passed a hand over his face. "Fuck. Just forget it. You're going to think what you want to think, which is that I'm just-" He rested his head in his hands. "Jesus wept. How is it that we ever managed to get to the sex? Before, I mean?"

Snape frowned as though actually thinking about this. "Drugs, I think."

"Drugs."

"Yes."

Sirius flopped on the sofa beside him. "In the future, when we consider doing this sober, there needs to be a twenty minute rule."

"A twenty minute rule?"

"No talking for twenty minutes before or after. That's the only way I can see to arrive at orgasm, at this point."

Snape was giving him an odd look.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just - I really don't understand you at all, Black."

"Yes, you do." He turned his head and regarded Snape. "You said you used to look in the Mirror on a regular basis. What did you see?"

Snape's eyes darkened. "Nothing I was ever proud to own."

"Ever see any people?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I suppose I do. You mean did I envision a romantic interest. Naturally I did, like all who use the Mirror."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Whom did you see?"

Snape frowned and shifted. "Good heavens, it was ages ago. I can't be expected to remember -"

"I'm amazed we ever made it through the war alive, relying on your ability to lie. Whom did you see?"

Snape was silent. "It's nothing you're going to want to hear."

"How bad can it be?"

Snape grimaced. "Pretty bad."

"Try me."

He sighed. "I saw Lupin."

It was a minute before Sirius found breath to speak. "I see." He wanted to swallow, but knew how loud it would sound.

"As I say, the Mirror lies."

"Right." His voice sounded faint and unconvincing, even to his ears. "So. Let me ask you a question, then."

"Very well."

"You said-earlier, you had told me - about the first time you and I-when we-" He paused to collect himself. "That night, was it Remus you were hoping to fuck? Is that why you. . ."

"No. It was not Remus I was hoping to fuck." His eyes narrowed in thought, and he watched Sirius. "Nor was it you, for that matter. I didn't fall in with the two of you that night, or any subsequent night, because I was particularly interested in a fuck. The truth is. . . the truth is, I didn't know I wanted you until I had you."

Sirius closed his eyes and let that slice through him.

"But then. . . then it was all that I wanted, and I knew I could never, never have enough. Never. I didn't know that kind of wanting had a name until I was in the middle of it, and too deep to get out. And I did try to get out, you should know that."

"When I went to Durmstrang."

"Yes."

Suddenly Sirius felt tired, more tired than he remembered feeling in years. More tired than Azkaban, more tired than Quidditch. His last night's sleep had been almost a week ago. Maybe more. Maybe months. He fought the heaviness of his eyes.

"I should get to bed. It'll be light soon anyway."

"All right." Snape's voice was remote. Sirius glanced at him.

"You're naked."

"Obviously so."

Sirius let his eyes wander the lean, pale body, the hair blacker than black on the sunless skin, the cock settled in its nest of curly hair. This time he did swallow. It was a mild surprise that Snape was gorgeous. He made no attempt to hide his looking.

"Black. Are you quite finished leering at me?"

Sirius raised his eyes. Beneath his sallow colour, there was a light flush on Snape's cheekbones. Interesting, Sirius thought.

"Am I making you uncomfortable, Severus?"

"Rather."

He let his eyes meet Snape's. Hesitantly, he leaned in. Snape blinked at him. He leaned further. All right, he thought. So I get no help. All right. I can do that too.

He rose up a bit and leaned in all the way, brushing his lips over Snape's jaw, neck, and jaw again. He pulled back a little and looked. Snape was staring straight ahead, his chest rising and falling a bit more rapidly. He leaned in again and latched onto Snape's neck, suckling and licking. He broke off and looked again. Snape's breathing was fast now; he betrayed no other reaction.

"Severus."

"Go away."

"Go-away?"

"Yes. Please."

"Why?"

"Because I am very close to forgetting why you should."

Sirius drew back. He frowned. "No," he said at last. "No."

In one fluid motion he slipped to the floor and positioned himself between Snape's knees. The cock in its nest of hair had begun to stir, and he watched it with interest.

"Black, what- don't-"

He lowered his mouth and gave the cock a long lick, from base to tip, then down again. Snape breathed out with a low flutter that made Sirius's cock twitch in response. He watched with fascination as the cock swelled and lengthened, uncoiling, darkening with blood. Gently he pushed the foreskin back, and caught the quick motion of Snape's hands tightening on the sofa cushions.

"Black-"

He bent his head again and swallowed him whole. Snape let his head fall back and his hips thrust up.

"This isn't going to- I'm not going to be-"

Sirius raised his head. "Severus. I know you're close. Go on, let yourself come. Fuck my mouth, Severus."

Snape groaned as Sirius closed his mouth around him again. He swallowed, feeling the tip of Snape's cock batter the back of his throat.

"Ah, God-"

Sirius redoubled his efforts, trying to ease his half-open trousers off. His own cock was getting painfully hard, and he needed to get a hand around it.

"Fuck-oh fuck yes-please-I need-" Snape's hips were arching up off the sofa now, and his voice was taut with frustration. Sirius rose up.

"What, lover? What do you need? Just tell me what you want."

"You-oh, please, I can't-"

"You want me in you, is that it? You want to come with me fucking you?"

Snape focused his eyes. "God, yes."

Sirius cast desperately about. "I don't - there's not-" A stray joke about what else phoenix tears might be good for crossed his mind, but he squashed it.

"I don't need anything, it's fine, just-"

"No." Sirius's voice was harsh. "You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm going to hurt you that way just so we can get off." He took two fingers and sucked on them, wetting them as much as he was able. He freed his cock and added a liberal amount of pre-come. It wouldn't be enough, but it would do for fingers. "Just relax."

He lowered his mouth again and suckled, swallowing repeatedly around the tip. Snape bucked up and hissed. He nudged his fingers against Snape's entrance, just pushing, giving him a little pressure.

"Sirius, just-God, please-"

He slipped the fingers inside, carefully, feeling the instinctive clench that told him it did, indeed, hurt. He paused, waiting. He wondered when the last time they had done this was. Snape was rocking back and forth on his fingers now, moaning softly, eyes tight shut, hands scrabbling the cushions. God, but it was a sight. His cock ached to follow his fingers. He doubted he was coordinated enough to suck Snape off, fuck him with his fingers, and wank himself at the same time, so he settled for rubbing against the sofa as he worked him.

"Ahh-ah-God, more, please yes-" Snape was practically riding his fingers now, head thrown back, mouth open. Sirius increased the speed of his hand, feeling the hard firmness of the gland beneath his fingers. Fuck, he had to have more or die. He wrapped himself around Snape's leg and rubbed. The leg began to move obligingly up and down.

Snape cried out and threw his legs further apart as a fountain of seed exploded in Sirius's mouth.

"Ah-fuck-Sirius-yes yes-" In a moment he recognised as pure selfishness born of desperate, overwhelming need, Sirius quickly pulled his mouth off and replaced it with his other hand. Snape's come arced and spurted out over his fingers as he thrust into Sirius's hand, his arse clamping Sirius's fingers as wave after wave seized him. Snape fell back limp and dazed, his breathing a shallow moan. Gently Sirius eased his fingers out, pulling another moan from Snape.

"Severus-can you-"

In answer Snape spread his legs yet wider. Sirius slicked Snape's come on his cock with trembling fingers, resisting the urge to lick it, wanting more of the taste but more desperately wanting to wrap himself in that tight heat that had clenched his hand. Roughly, he hoisted Snape's legs and buried himself to the balls in one smooth, long thrust. Snape arched and cried out as Sirius rammed into his still-sensitive prostate.

"Oh-I-I'm-Jesus!" Sirius was shaking, trying to hold off his orgasm, but it would not stop, the heat was building in his balls, he wanted to fuck Snape forever, nothing had ever felt this good, this tight, it was sucking him under, and Snape's eyes were on him, urging him on. And then Snape was flexing something, he was tightening his muscles around his cock-

"What are you-oh God stop, I won't-" He gave a heavy groan and one last thrust and spilled himself into the dark clutching heat, oh fuck yes yes, and there were arms that caught him as he swayed, legs that wrapped him, lips that found his, and he was wet with come and sweat and salt.

When he swam to the surface, he discovered they had been lying like this so long their breathing had synchronised, and somehow they were stretched lengthwise on the sofa. Their bodies were still joined, and Sirius knew he could not bear to move. His arms were around Snape in what he knew must be a breath-crushing embrace, but neither had made any move to disentangle. Sirius let his eyes drift shut, burrowing into the warmth beneath him.

Suddenly pain shot into him like a white fist, worse than he had yet known, squeezing the air from his lungs so there was only a faint gasp where he had intended a scream, and he was off Snape in an instant, only Snape's arms caught him.

"Sirius? Sirius, what's-"

"Let go God let go don't touch me-"

Snape was stumbling up, staggering to the desk, wrenching open drawers, then there were firm hands on his jaw, tilting it up, trying to open it, prying his clenched lips apart. "Sirius! Listen to me. Swallow this. Swallow it now, goddamnit!"

The iron grip on his jaw would not let him breathe unless he swallowed, and rough fingers were massaging his throat. Helplessly he gulped the viscous stuff, feeling the pain recede even before he had finished swallowing it down, as the blinding claw eased and allowed light and thought and air, sweet air.

"I-sorry," he panted. With shame he felt a tear track his face, and he turned his head.

"Sirius," murmured Snape, and he let himself be gathered and held as the trembling in his arm eased. They were on the floor, Sirius noted. He must have fallen off. Thinking was too much. He had no strength for it.

"It's just. . . this goddamned arm," he muttered.

Snape's voice was grave. "Black. When was the last time you took any of that pain potion?"

"I finished it a few days ago."

"You can't have. I sent you three bottles just last week. You'd be dead if you drank that much. What on earth did you do?" Snape's voice was harsh.

He sat up, cradling his arm, limp and wrung. "I. . ." He swallowed. "There were things I needed for Hogwarts. The house. . . I spent more than I intended getting it ready for the winter. There wasn't. . . I made a quick trip to London over the weekend and. . . and sold two bottles. To a dealer in Knockturn Alley." He avoided Snape's eyes. Shame scalded him. He closed his eyes. It was too much. Just too much-the wrenching emotion of dealing with Snape, the orgasm of his life, the pain, and now this. He felt a mutinous urge to retch. Wouldn't that just be the topper, he thought desperately, and cracked his eyes to search out a likely place to heave.

"Sirius, listen to me."

"Not now. Don't give me this now."

"Yes, now, goddamnit, you-you utter-" a pause. "Please listen to me." He could hear Snape struggling to keep his voice under control. "That potion is not just a pain relieving potion. The poison you ingested last year is still active in your system. Still active, do you understand that? The potion is designed to neutralise it as best it can, which is not completely. If you fail to take that potion. . ." Snape trailed off.

"I get the picture, Snape."

There was silence for a minute, and he let his breathing slow. The potion was filling him with the familiar spreading warmth. He opened his eyes all the way and saw Snape sitting beside him, his head in his hands. His voice when he spoke was muffled.

"I won't say what I want to say- which is why in hell's name didn't you come to me, don't you know I would have given you whatever you needed, or loaned it if you prefer, how could you think for one moment I would let-" Snape dropped his hands. "I won't say a word of that."

"You just did. And I don't want your fucking money."

"Idiot."

"Git."

Snape leaned against the sofa alongside him.

"Snape."

"Hm."

"Will it help to take it off? The arm, I mean?"

Snape sighed. "It might. It might not."

"All right."

They rested in silence for a bit more, and Sirius felt his head begin to droop. He let it fall onto Snape's shoulder, and the dark head adjusted to accommodate his.

"So. I got my fantasy first, after all."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know. The sofa? I always did want to do it right here in the headmaster's office."

Snape gave a low chuckle at that. "Every schoolboy has that fantasy, Black."

"Yes, well. My fantasies never included fucking the headmaster, I hasten to add."

Snape's laugh became a snort. "I should hope not."

Involuntarily, Sirius's eyes strayed up to Albus's portrait on the wall opposite them. If he tilted his head enough he could just see him, sitting dozing at his desk. Was it his imagination, or did the white head turn ever so slightly in his direction? No, definitely not his imagination. The kindly face behind the white beard crinkled, and a blue eye winked at him.

I'm just going to ignore that, he thought.

"Now, about you and that desk. . ."

He could hear the smile in Snape's voice. "Get some rest, Black. Just get some rest." He resettled his head on the shoulder and wondered what Snape would do with him if he really fell asleep here. Throw a blanket over him at the morning staff meeting? Don't mind my lover, Filius, just step right over him. He smiled and savoured the word- its oddity, its promise, its sheer exoticism and improbability- before he slipped over the borders of sleep into a country strange but no more unlikely than the one he inhabited now.

* * *

**Epilogue: Arcadia Again**

"Sirius? Sirius, where are you?"

"Upstairs-be right down."

Remus set his valise down and looked around at the unaccustomedly neat interior of the cottage. Sirius trotted down the narrow, crooked stairs, a grin on his face, pulling a shirt over his head as he went.

"What are you doing here already, Moony? I didn't think there was a chance you'd get away before three. Did you get all those exams finished?"

"Finally. I had to stay up all of last night to get them done." He threw his cloak on the banister and pulled a bottle of amber liquid out of the bag he was carrying. "Thanks for having me, Sirius. Hermione said to say she'll be here this afternoon. She's probably re-reading her exams as we speak. For the third time."

"That girl has some serious problems. Did she sleep at all last night?"

"Forty or so minutes. At her desk."

"Come on to the kitchen and let's uncork that. For a poor man, you drink some awfully good liquor."

"Half a glass for me, Sirius. I'll be asleep before dinner time if I drink much, after a sleepless night."

"Old man."

Remus snorted. "You don't know the half of it. How on earth did you manage to get away so quickly?"

"What, you mean from Hogwarts?" Sirius grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and pulled the cork on the firewhiskey. "That was nothing. I had my obligations as a host to consider. Doilies to fold, hand towels to press, and all that. I figured if I didn't have the house in some sort of order, Hermione would spend the whole summer scrubbing the baseboards. Besides, I adjusted my exams a little bit."

Remus gave him a suspicious look. "Adjusted how?"

Sirius shrugged. "Simple. I made it into a pass/fail sort of thing. Nothing written - I'm not that big an idiot. I just gave each class something to transfigure, is all. You know - gerbils to white mice, that sort of thing. I saved grading the seventh years till last. They were to transfigure a glass of water to a gin martini. Turns out they're a fairly adept bunch." He grinned as he knocked back the whiskey.

"Sirius. Snape'll have your head when he finds out there was no written part to your exams."

"Let him sack me, then. I'll wager that after his brief experience of teaching Transfiguration, he'll let me do whatever the hell I want."

"Is Harry here?"

"No, he's been at the Burrow the last few days. I practically had to pry him out of his room to get him to go, though."

"Oh?" Remus looked concerned.

"He's been closeted in his room here for the last four months, as far as I know, and hasn't shown his face to another living soul. I've no idea what he's been doing up there, but when I ask him he just looks all secretive and sly."

"Huh. Little late in his life to be discovering wanking."

"Yeah, you'd think. Anyway, he'll be back some time. I try not to keep tabs too closely."

"Is Severus here yet?"

"No, I expect he'll stay until the last gasp. I'm expecting an owl from him next few hours." Sirius ran his hand through his still damp hair and yawned. "Listen, you haven't by any chance refined your cooking skills in the last two years, have you? Because I'm trying to conjure up something decent for dinner and not having much luck. What's your best dish?"

"Toast."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "You've had two and a half years to better yourself as a human being, and it's obviously been a complete waste."

"Yes, and what's your excuse?" Remus pushed back his chair and headed towards the stairs with his suitcase.

"I can get by on my looks, unlike some. You want a hand with that?"

"Oh no, don't bother. I'm sure there's a mediwizard in the next village who can put my back right again." He struggled up the stairs and kicked back the door of the little room. Sirius followed him, leaning on the doorframe.

"What the hell did you pack such a heavy bag for, anyway? Planning on changing three times a day, are you?"

Remus tossed the suitcase on the bed. Its springs sagged beneath the weight. "It's not clothes. Hermione asked if I would bring some of her things on with me. God help me, I think it's books." He straightened and rubbed his back.

Sirius laughed. "She really knows how to spend a holiday. Listen, though, I did want to ask you. If you want the bigger room, I'll be happy to vacate-I can share with Harry, and I'm sure Severus wouldn't mind the sofa."

Remus raised a sceptical brow. "Oh, really. I think I'd like to hear that discussion."

"Oh, he'd cut off his left testicle for Hermione. Though I wouldn't advise saying anything about it, or he'll cut off yours. He just might do that anyway."

"I'm sure. And don't be ridiculous - we're not going to turn you out of your bed. We've plenty of room right here."

"All right, if you're sure. I'm going to head downstairs and see what I can come up with to eat. Somewhere in this house I'm bound to find something I could actually use to feed people." He started down the stairs.

"Sirius," Remus called after him.

"Yeah?"

"Don't you dare just transfigure something. I don't want transfigured food. It tends to un-transfigure somewhere in the middle of the digestive tract."

"Whinge, moan, complain. Get down here and whip us up a masterly dish of toast, then, if you're so keen on cooking."

"Sirius."

"What is it now?"

"Sod off."

Sirius grinned and headed off to the kitchen.

* * *

Dinner, as it turned out, was not a total failure, and the toast was only required as a side dish. Hermione arrived in plenty of time to establish order in the kitchen, and she managed to turn out a credible stew with the few unrotted items in Sirius's refrigerator. As in most household matters, she eschewed the use of magic, and Sirius and Remus were set to work peeling vegetables and slicing carrots. Snape, who had arrived shortly after Hermione, was sipping whiskey and chatting potions with Hermione. She had had a new shipment from Smoag's in just the day before, and he was eagerly quizzing her about obscure roots and such. He had already begun to set up his washroom laboratory, and apparently they had great plans for the summer.

"Just keep it out of the kitchen, Snape," Sirius said.

"On the premise that you're the only one allowed to convey deadly poisons in here?"

"That's the last complaint about my cooking I'm going to listen to all summer. Get up off your arse and help."

"Unlike some, I have actually worked today. We're going to have a little discussion about those exams of yours, by the way."

There was a burst and a clatter from the fireplace in the parlour, and Harry was pushing back the kitchen door, coughing and covered in ash. "God, I still hate Floo," he said with a grin. "'Mione!" He threw his arms around Hermione, holding her so tight her feet left the ground. Sirius caught Remus's half-frown and smiled.

"How was the Burrow, Harry?"

"Crowded." He set Hermione down and plopped some parcels on the kitchen table. "How are you, Sir?" he said, with a nod to Snape. "Anyway, I went down to London yesterday, just for a bit. I'm thinking of taking another flat there-did I tell you, Sirius? I did a bit of shopping, too. Say, what's this- stew? Sirius didn't cook it, did he?" He ducked the bit of carrot his godfather pelted at him and grabbed a slice of fresh tomato from Hermione's cutting board.

Snape sighed and rose. "Entertaining as this is, I think I will see to things in the laboratory. Hermione, did you put those-"

"Yes, just to the right of the other."

He nodded and drifted off to the washroom, and after a few minutes Remus followed him. Sirius noted that Hermione watched him go a bit anxiously, but she did not let up her bright chatter with Harry, who was regaling her with tales of the Burrow and Charlie's four children, who somehow all managed to be under the age of two, and were turning Uncle Fred and Uncle George's hair prematurely grey.

* * *

"All right, everyone, gather 'round. Harry has an announcement to make. Remus, leave off groping your wife for half a second and come into the parlour." Sirius clattered an armful of dirty dishes in the sink and smirked as Remus and Hermione sprang apart. "God knows how you stand it, Hermione, with him pawing at you all the time."

"Well, you didn't used to complain," was her parting shot on her way out of the kitchen, and Remus laughed as Sirius choked and spluttered.

"Oh, give it up, Paddy, you're more married than I could ever hope to be."

Sirius grinned and opened his mouth to reply, but Harry stuck his head in the door. "Everyone ready?"

"We're coming, Harry. Be right there. Hey, Remus," he said, as Harry's head disappeared. "Is she all right? She hardly ate a bite of stew, and she looks pale as a ghost. Is she coming down with something?"

"Oh no, she's fine," Remus said absently.

"What is Potter yelling about now?" growled Snape from the washroom door.

"Come on out of there already-can't you join human society for one night before you lock yourself away to do whatever it is you do in there? Besides, you're beginning to reek of potions again. I'm going to have to lay you in the sun tomorrow just to air you out."

"Come on, Sirius!" Harry was calling from the parlour.

"He just doesn't get any less irritating," muttered Snape.

When they were all gathered in the little parlour, Harry cleared his throat, looking out at the little group-Hermione sitting on the sofa, Remus on the floor, leaning against her legs, Snape on the other end of the sofa, and Sirius, who stretched himself out full length on the sofa with his feet in Hermione's lap, which she swatted, and his head in Snape's, who swatted him harder.

"Ow! Watch it! One head injury is quite enough for a lifetime, thank you very much."

"Settle down, all of you. There's something I want to share with all of you. I. . . oh blast, I forgot those things I got-hang on." Harry bent and rummaged among the bags and things at his feet. "Here it is. They finally got it finished. Here you go, Sirius." He handed a small but weighty package to Sirius, who took it with surprise and sat up.

"Harry? What is this?"

"Just a little something I had made for you. As a thank you - for letting me stay here this year, for everything. For-well, just open it already."

Sirius slowly lifted off the paper. Inside was a wooden box with the words "Smalley and Doone's" etched on it.

"Harry, you shouldn't-"

"Just open it, will you?"

Sirius lifted the lid and his face went still. He frowned and swallowed. Snape looked over his shoulder, then quickly up at Harry, who blushed.

"It's for the front door. It's a knocker. It's-well, I thought it was appropriate."

Gently Sirius lifted the shining object out of its velvet nest. The Gryffindor lion rampant lifted a paw and shook his brassy mane. The king cobra wrapped around his body slithered up and around his neck, raising his majestic hood. The snake's eyes were cabochon emeralds, and the lion's eyes blazed with bevelled rubies. He set it down and looked at his godson.

"Harry," he said quietly, "this must have cost a fortune."

Harry smiled tentatively. "But do you like it?"

"I think you know what I think of it. Harry, I-" Sirius studied the knocker in his lap and was silent. Snape slipped a hand onto his knee. "Harry, it's absolutely gorgeous. Thank you."

"And don't go lecturing me about the money, as I'm sure you're about to, because it was the first fruits of something I've been working on for a long time-something that never would have happened without you." He looked around at the group again, avoiding Snape's eyes and the unaccustomed weight of approval in them.

"Anyway. When I left the Aurors last year, I didn't really know what I wanted to do. This place-you-helped me see what it was that I really wanted-really had to do. Well. I'm not being very articulate," he said, meeting Hermione's puzzled eyes. "At any rate, here is what I've been doing, and I've been waiting a long time to share it with all of you, because you are the people- that is, I can't imagine who else-oh, bollocks," he sighed. "I'm just going to get on with it."

He bent and lifted something else out of the bag at his feet. It was a stack of papers, closely written, back to front, in his own cramped, neat hand. He looked nervously around one last time, then cleared his throat.

"'Harry Potter,'" he read from the front page in a clear voice, "'and the Philosopher's Stone.'"

Hermione gasped. He bit his lip and blushed, but kept on, in a shaking voice.

"Chapter One. The Boy Who Lived."

"Oh, God," said Snape. Sirius punched him.

"'Mr. And Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.'"

"Who?"

"The aunt and uncle."

"Oh." Snape subsided.

"'They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.'" Harry's voice gathered strength as he read, and despite occasional murmurs (mostly from Snape), his audience were rapt. He read the whole first chapter, all about being left at the Dursleys' doorstep, and the people in cloaks terrifying Uncle Vernon, and the owls, and the conference (imagined, of course, but perhaps not so very far from the truth) between Dumbledore and McGonagall. He didn't look up until he was finished, to see Remus smiling at him, Sirius beaming, Hermione the perfect picture of wonder, and Snape squinting at him suspiciously.

"Harry, it's bloody brilliant," said Sirius.

"Oh. Well, I'm, um, glad you think so." His blush deepened. "There's more-quite a lot more, actually, but perhaps I'd better skip on ahead," he said, shuffling through papers. "Ah, here we go. 'The Journey from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.' Here's a good one." He cleared his throat and started in, feeling much more sure of himself now. He was quite caught up in his narrative by the time he got to Ron and Scabbers and Neville.

"'He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

'Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one,' she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.'"

"WHAT?" Hermione shrieked.

"Oh. Well. You know, Hermione, you were only eleven, and you did have rather a way about you. . ."

"A WAY about me?" Her voice ratcheted up another octave. Remus was helpless with laughter now, and she kicked him viciously in the ribs. "Harry Potter, I'll have you know- And you just wait, Remus Lupin, you'll get yours. I'll wager he's got some choice descriptions of you, Mr. Sartorial Elegance."

"Well, I don't think I come into it for quite a while, not at this rate."

Harry was flipping ahead. "No, he's right. In fact, I've only just begun writing the part where we meet Remus and Sirius for the first time. I'm thinking about making that a whole book all by itself, and calling it 'The Prisoner of Azkaban.'"

Sirius raised his eyebrows but offered no comment. Harry hastily shuffled papers. "Why don't I just skip ahead, then, to the part where we're actually at Hogwarts."

"Yes, why don't we," said Snape in a silky voice.

Harry began the sorting hat chapter, and before long his engaging, transparent prose had his audience lulled to quiet. There was a gentle rollick and a wry humour to the sight of Hogwarts through the eyes of a bemused eleven year old that had them fascinated in spite of themselves, and Hermione even refrained from comment on the stray remarks about her.

"'Harry,"' he continued at the close of the chapter, "'who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with-'" Harry stumbled a bit. "'With-um-black hair, and-and a-a very distinguished look about him.' And, um, that's all for that chapter."

"Wait a minute," Sirius said. "I think you've skipped a bit there. Go back. Black hair, yes?"

"No, no, really, that's all I've got there - you know, some of this is still pretty sketchy-"

"Hang on." Sirius leaped up and snatched the paper out of Harry's hand, ignoring his protests. "Right, here we go. Oh, this is wonderful stuff, Harry. Just wonderful."

"'Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban,'" he read, knocking Harry's hand away, "'was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.'"

"A HOOKED NOSE?" Snape was pale with rage.

"I WAS ELEVEN! It looked very large!"

Snape's eyelid was twitching in a murderous way. Sirius tried to read more but collapsed laughing, clutching his stomach. "Oh, Harry," he managed, flipping through the pages. "You've really-hang on, Severus, look at this. You've got your own chapter! 'Chapter Eight: The Potions Master.'"

"Let me have a look at that," muttered Snape, snatching the manuscript out of Sirius's hands.

"Stop! Wait! You can't-"

"Oh, shut up, Mr. Potter." He was quickly scanning the chapter, his frown deepening. "This is patently ridiculous. That isn't what happened at all. You were blatantly disrespectful-"

"I WAS ELEVEN! For the last time, I'm not saying that any of this is the way it actually happened! This is just what I remember, how I saw it. And you were bloody terrifying, and more than a little cruel."

"I see." Snape rose and tossed the manuscript on the sofa, stalking out without a word.

"Oh, come on, Severus-" Sirius called.

"No, it's all right," Harry was saying. "He's got a point. He does come in for rather a lot of it at times. But I would like him to read the end, where I discover that he's actually been trying to save me."

Sirius clapped a hand on Harry's back. "Harry, it's absolutely brilliant. Unbelievable. I propose you read us the whole thing, first to last, with no omissions. Will you?"

"Yes, please, Harry," chimed in Hermione. He caught Remus's eye, who smiled lazily.

"I have to admit I'm eager to get to the part about me," he said.

Harry grinned and picked up his manuscript. "All right, then. If you're sure. And if you promise not to shriek at me like everyone else. I really do want all of you to hear it before it goes to press."

A silence fell. "Before it. . . what did you say, Harry?" Sirius managed.

"Before it goes to press. I've got a publisher. A Muggle one. They've agreed to bring the book out, as some sort of fantasy literature, in just a few months. And they've offered me a contract for more, too. One for every year of Hogwarts, in fact."

Sirius and Remus glanced at each other. "Harry. . . Harry, you can't do that."

"Why not?"

"But our world. . ." Hermione began.

"Will be safer than ever. We've spent all these centuries skulking about, drawing our cloaks about ourselves, lurking in shadows and alleys. I say, what better place to hide than in broad daylight? No one, not even the most cracked insane asylum inmate, will dare believe in witches and wizards after this book is published. And if anyone does stumble on the truth, who will believe him? Everyone will say he just got it out of a book." Harry looked from one to the other of them. "Don't you see? It's the safest I can think to make us. It's the last, best thing I can do for us. For all of us. Sirius, you will make him see that, won't you?"

His godfather frowned, thinking, his arms crossed. At last he sighed. "I'll try, Harry. But it won't be easy. And we need to talk about this some more. At least give me that. For now, let's get to bed. I'm knackered. All those gin martinis are beginning to catch up with me."

* * *

Sirius shut thedoor of his darkened bedroom and leaned against it, sighing heavily. He reached a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck.

"I was wondering if you were ever coming up."

Sirius shucked off his clothes and slipped into the bed, rubbing his arm absently.

"How is it today?"

"Not so bad. I didn't even think about it until a little bit ago."

Snape snorted. "And you accuse me of being a poor liar."

"Just promise me you won't spend your summer in there."

"Of course I won't. But there are one or two things I want to try, and Hermione has some decent ideas. Some of that sigmaringia-"

"Severus. It's not going to help, you know that, and I'll not have you kill yourself trying. Let's just not talk about it." He turned and propped himself on his good arm. "So what did Remus want with you?"

"Hm?"

"You know. Earlier, in the kitchen. He followed you into the washroom. What was that about?"

"Oh." Snape made some motion in the dark that might have been a shrug. "Hogwarts business."

"I see." Sirius turned over.

"No, you don't, so don't be an ass."

"Whatever."

"Oh, for-turn over at once."

Sirius flopped on his back but didn't look in Snape's direction.

"You idiot," Snape said softly. "Do you honestly think-" He sighed. "If you must know, and clearly my life will not be worth living if you don't, he wanted to ask me about the Shrieking Shack."

Sirius frowned and turned to face him. "The Shrieking Shack?"

"Yes. The Lupins want to buy it."

"You're joking. Why on earth? It's got way too much room for. . . for. . . oh, my God." Sirius sat bolt upright.

"My words exactly."

"What the hell do they think they're doing? They aren't. . . they can't. . . well this is just. . ." He stopped to catch his breath. "Are they-I mean, is she really?"

"Pregnant, you mean?"

"Yes. That. What you said."

Snape smiled in the dark. "Can't even say the word, can you."

Sirius flopped back. He reflected, watching the ceiling. "So Remus is going to be a father."

Snape studied him, then placed a hand on his chest, his thumb idly stroking. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. It's just-a surprise, is all."

"Did this possibility not occur to you, when they were married?"

Sirius turned his head, unable to account for the anger that flooded him and fearing to speak lest it catch him unawares. Snape edged closer and put his head on Sirius's chest.

"I thought the same thing, you know," he murmured. "When they were married. How ridiculous the whole thing was, how patently foolish, what a lot of nonsense, what a demeaningly public celebration of what is essentially private. But when it came to the moment, standing there, watching them-" He sighed and shifted his head. "Well, I would have given anything to be able to do that."

Sirius's arms tightened around him. "Don't need it."

"I know."

"By the way, Harry really thinks you're going to kill him."

"I haven't yet. It's a day-by-day sort of thing, though."

"It's really quite a good book, you know. I was looking through it after everyone came upstairs. He's a remarkably good writer."

Snape made an odd noise. "It was never apparent in his essays."

"No, well, it wouldn't be." Sirius yawned. "So are you really irritated about my exams?"

"Yes."

"Hm. What can I do, I wonder, to persuade you to forgive me?" Sirius gave a sly grin and drew Snape up for a long, lazy kiss, full of the promise of the summer, of sun-drenched afternoons, of solitary swims, of late breakfasts and early drinks, of naps in the garden, of the words they never quite managed to say but never felt the lack of.

Afterwards, when Snape slept sated on his chest, he lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling and listening to the slap of the wave on the shingle down at the cove. When the nights were still like this, he fancied he could almost hear the current, like the current of the water that still moved through his dreams. It was in sleep and the grey borders of not-quite sleep that his memories would sometimes come to him, slipping into his mind with ease and quietness, and he would think, yes, that fits. Most things he knew now he would never get back, but there were things to put in their place. He shifted a little, and Snape's arms tightened on him in his sleep. Like an anchor. Like a buoy, a marker in the cold liquid dark of memory. A first beginning, and a last end. He closed his eyes and slid down into the harbour of his troubled, quieted mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Attributions: In Chapter One, my apologies to Shakespeare and the Scottish play for Snape and Black's banter over potions ingredients, and to the Zombies for the utter misuse of their song "The Time of the Season for Loving." In Chapter Two, the poem Snape and Black recite in its entirety is A.E. Housman's, from A Shropshire Lad. My apologies to Isak Dinesen. In Chapter Four, at Dumbledore's graveside, Snape reads from Tennyson's Idylls of the King, the final dialogue between the dying King Arthur and Sir Bedivere. His last words to Dumbledore are from the same. In Chapter Ten, the percent solution of cocaine Snape is using seems high, I know; however, Sherlock Holmes uses a seven percent solution, and I am assuming a wizard would require at least twice that to be knocked on his arse. And Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds-do we honestly need an attribution here? Very well. The Beatles, in case you were born in 1985 or something like that.
> 
> Finally, thanks go to Ponomoke for steering my faulty German on the right course.


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